TRUSCOTT 


The  Poet 

and  Penelope 


By 
L.  PARRY  TRUSCOTT 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK   AND  LONDON 
1902 


CONTENTS 


CHAP.  PA«B 

I.   HIGH  HOLIDAY  !           .......  9 

II.   IN  SEARCH   OP  THE   BEAUTIFUL            .           .           . ,        .  15 

III.  HOW   THE  VASE   CAME   TO   LONDON      ....  20 

IV.  TO  THE  ACCOUNT   OF   THE   DUCHESS  ....  27 
V.   A   SUM   IN   SIMPLE   MULTIPLICATION    ....  33 

VI.   AN  AFTERTHOUGHT 38 

VH.   THE   BALL   SET   ROLLING      ......  44 

VIII.   AN  INSUFFICIENT   SUBSTITUTE 52 

ix.  "AND  SHE  WAS  A  THISTLE-LIFTER"          ...  59 

X.   A   QUESTION   OF  ADVERTISEMENT          ....  66 

XL   RECORDS   A  PROMISE 74 

XH.    TO   THE   SATISFACTION   OF   THE   DUCHESS    ...  81 

XIII.  CONCERNING  A  NAMELESS   HEROINE  ....  87 

XIV.  THE   SAFE  SIDE 95 

XV.   AN   INTELLECTUAL  AFFAIR 103 

XVI.   OF  A  NIGHTINGALE  IN   A  WILD   CHERRY-TREE   .           .  109 

XVII.    THE  PROPHECY  OF   THE   POET 118 

XVIII.   THE   FULFILMENT   OF  THE   PROPHECY            .           .           .  125 

XIX.   THE  TREE  OF   DIFFICULTY 133 

5 


2138506 


6  CONTENTS 

CRAP.  PACK 

xx.  "IT  CANNOT  BB"     .       ,       .       .       ,       .       .    139 
XXI.  CHRONICLES  A  VICTORY  ......    146 

XXTT.  A  GUERDON  FOR  CHARLIE 153 

XXITT.  SUCCESS  IN  THE  MAKING  .....  161 
XXIV.  IN  DEFENCE  OF  THE  POET  .....  168 
XXV.  PENELOPE  RETURNS  TO  BLTTHEDOWN  .  .  .178 

XXVL  PENELOPE'S  INHERITANCE 184 

XXVII.  THE  DEVICl  OF  THE  LETTERS         .       .       .       .190 

XXVm.  THE  POET  PROPOSES 197 

XXTX.  THE  UNFORESEEN    .  204 

• 
XXX.   THE  SAVING  OF  THE  SITUATION         ....      209 

XXXL   TO  THE  REGRET  OF   THE  DUCHESS    .  .  .  .217 

XXXII.    LORD   COLBECK  BESTIRS   HIMSELF      ....      224 

XXXm.   A  SINGLE-HANDED   EMBASSY 233 

XXXIV.   THE  RESULT  OF  A  WILD-GOOSE  CHASB     ...      239 

xxxv.  PENELOPE'S  WEB 245 


THE  POET  AND   PENELOPE 


THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 


CHAPTEK  I 

HIGH  HOLIDAY! 

"  OH  !  Oh !  Oh ! "  cried  Penelope,  in  a  joyous  crescendo, 
"  there's  the  Poet  at  the  gate ! " 

Almost  as  she  spoke  she  was  hurrying  down  the 
garden  path ;  in  another  minute  she  was  opening  the 
gate  for  the  Poet  to  pass  through. 

"How  good  to  see  you!"  she  said  warmly,  for 
Penelope  seldom  used  half  measures.  "  The  last  person 
I  should  have  expected,  and  the  most  welcome !  The 
very  man  I  have  been  wanting  to  see,  because  I  have 
something  most  particular  to  tell  you — think  of  that ! 
Aren't  you  glad  you  have  come  ? " 

"  I  am,"  smiled  the  Poet,  "  and  I  expected  to  be." 

He  shut  the  gate  in  the  trim  box  hedge  as  he  spoke. 
The  straight  gravel  path,  leading  to  the  front  door  on 
which  he  and  Penelope  stood,  was  as  trim  as  the  hedge, 
and  so  was  the  velvety  lawn  on  their  left-hand  side. 
But  filling  the  wide  border  on  their  right  to  overflowing, 


10  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

bloomed  a  tangle  of  delicately-tinted  spring  flowers ; 
an  unspoiled  wilderness  of  pale-coloured  freshness  and 
beauty. 

The  Poet  followed  Penelope  past  the  border  with 
lingering  footsteps. 

"  But  why,"  she  was  asking,  "  did  you  wait  like  that 
on  the  outside  of  the  gate  ?  " 

"  I  was  revelling  in  the  pleasures  of  anticipation." 

"You  couldn't  have  been,  for  such  a  thing  doesn't 
exist,"  said  Penelope  assertively.  "But  what  a  bless- 
ing," she  cried,  as  they  reached  the  ivy-covered  porch, 
"  that  I  was  at  the  window  to  save  you  from  yourself 
so  soon.  You  do  have  such  sweet,  unwholesome  fancies 
sometimes,  don't  you  ? " 

She  paused  by  the  mat,  and,  in  obedience  to  the 
pause,  the  Poet  ostentatiously  wiped  his  neat  boots 
on  it.  As  he  did  so,  he  removed  his  hat. 

"Your  hair  is  the  least  trifle  too  long,"  murmured 
Penelope.  "Unless  I  am  much  mistaken,  there  is 
something  a  wee  bit  amiss  with  the  cut  of  that  coat. 
But  oh!  I  am  not  complaining — not  yet.  I  am  too 
pleased  to  see  you  for  the  present." 

The  Poet  was  making  a  further  use  of  the  pause  to 
look  at  Penelope.  She  was  dressed  in  a  warm  tone  of 
brown.  The  bright  lights  in  her  hair  were  the  brighter 
for  the  sunshine  around  her.  Pleasurable  excitement 
and  the  fresh  breeze  lent  additional  colour  to  her 
cheeks.  She  stood  directly  between  the  Poet  and  a 
background  of  pale,  spring  flowers,  and  he  fell  to 
wondering  if  she  would  always  seem  the  brightest 
presence  in  any  setting,  as  she  certainly  did  here ;  as 
she  still  would  in  the  interior  to  which  she  was  taking 


HIGH  HOLIDAY!  11 

him,  as  he  knew  by  past  experience.  And  he  decided 
for  the  hundredth  time  that  she  would,  unless 

But  after  all  he  left  the  question  very  much  as  he 
found  it,  for  Penelope  was  waiting,  and  that  was  not 
an  exercise  she  ever  favoured. 

"  Come  along,"  she  insisted,  "  your  boots  are  spotless, 
I  am  sure." 

In  the  hall  convention  demanded  its  tithe  of  the 
Poet. 

"  How  is  Auntie  ? "  he  asked  in  payment. 

"  Auntie  is  very  well — for  her,  but  she  will  soon  be 
wondering  where  we  are." 

She  opened  a  door,  preceding  him  into  the  room. 

"  Auntie,"  she  said  in  a  louder  voice,  "  here  is  our 
Poet.  Isn't  it  nice  that  he  should  come  down  to  us 
this  beautiful  day  ? " 

The  figure  at  the  further  end  of  the  long  room, 
sitting  in  an  easy-chair  between  a  window  and  the 
fire,  did  not  rise  in  welcome,  but  a  gently  smiling  face 
was  turned  in  the  direction  of  the  advancing  young 
man. 

"I  am  always  pleased  to  see  you,"  Auntie  said,  as 
the  Poet  took  her  slender,  outstretched  hand  in  his. 
Her  eyes  sought  his  face,  but  even  a  stranger  must 
have  known  that  she  spoke  of  seeing  him  only  in  a 
figurative  sense,  and  the  Poet  was  no  stranger  here. 
Very  soon,  installed  in  the  next  easiest  chair  to 
Auntie's,  with  Penelope  a  crouching  representative  of 
eager  interest  on  the  corner  of  the  sofa,  he  was  detailing 
his  personal  news  since  their  last  meeting,  in  addition  to 
all  such  portions  of  the  gossip  of  the  town  as  did  not 
present  themselves  to  him  in  too  sharp  a  contrast  to 


12  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

the  room  and  its  accustomed  occupants.  You  would 
never  have  guessed  him  to  be  a  poet,  but  Penelope 
seemed  satisfied,  and  as  her  satisfaction  was  his 
present  aim,  there  are  poets  who  well  might  envy 
him. 

And  again,  as  he  had  foreseen,  she  formed  the  most 
vivid  presence  in  the  place. 

For  the  room,  full  of  quaintly-shaped  furniture, 
queer-legged  tables  and  chairs  in  dim  chintz  petticoats, 
its  walls  hung  with  old  china  and  washed-out  water- 
colour  drawings  of  uncertain  perspective,  matched  far 
more  nearly,  in  its  air  of  faded,  but  careful,  preserva- 
tion, with  the  quiet  figure  in  the  easy-chair,  set 
between  the  window  and  the  fire. 

Auntie's  dress,  planned  by  Penelope,  had  an  old- 
world  air  which  artfully  furthered  the  impression. 
Her  manners,  matured  in  that  picturesque  home,  were 
so  much  a  part  of  it  as  to  blur  in  an  onlooker's  mind 
the  progress  of  the  century.  If  the  Poet  knew  her 
real  name,  it  was  just  as  much  as  he  did  so.  It  is 
doubtful  if  she  had  not,  in  her  secluded  life,  some 
excuse  for  mislaying  it  in  her  own  memory.  Ever 
since,  almost  simultaneously,  she  had  lost  her  hold 
on  the  blessing  of  sight  and  gained  the  guardianship 
of  little  Penelope,  she  had  been  just  "Auntie,"  and 
had  found  the  homely  title  sufficient  for  her  remaining 
needs. 

And  at  her  side,  in  the  same  rare,  peaceful  atmos- 
phere which  had  plainly  made  her  what  she  was  (and 
what  she  must  have  been  even  if  spared  her  affliction), 
a  type  of  refined,  shrinking  ladylikeness,  Penelope 
had  ripened  into  a  polished  brilliance,  wanting  in  no 


HIGH  HOLIDAY!  13 

element  that  makes  for  success,  that  the  Poet's  critical 
eyes  could  discern.  He  had  marvelled  at  it  when  her 
sweeping,  red-brown  hair  was  constantly  getting  in 
his  way,  and  her  skirts  cleared  the  ground  with  a 
generous  margin.  Penelope  professed  to  have  almost 
forgotten  those  days  by  now,  and  yet  he  was  left 
marvelling. 

When  the  luncheon  hour  arrived,  the  Poet  was 
still  employed  in  retailing  his  moderated  version  of 
the  Great  World's  doings.  As  she  sprang  to  her 
feet,  Penelope,  up  to  that  moment  to  all  appearance 
rapturously  engrossed,  met  his  eyes  with  a  laugh  in 
hers. 

"What  a  dear,  good,  little  pet  boy  you  seem,  con- 
victed out  of  your  own  mouth!"  she  said. 

Then  she  drew  Auntie's  hand  through  her  arm. 
Auntie  had  never  learnt  to  walk  with  any  certainty 
of  aim  in  her  darkness,  and  no  one  else  ever  guided 
her  footsteps  while  Penelope  was  there.  The  Poet 
held  the  door  open  for  them  with  deference,  following 
in  their  wake  along  the  hall. 

"  And,  of  course,  we're  ever  so  pleased  to  see  you  any- 
how, but  you  might  have  found  a  more  sumptuous 
spread  on  the  festive  board,  if  you'd  given  us  a  hint 
of  your  coming,"  Penelope  explained. 

The  Poet,  taking  his  usual  place,  expressed  a  very 
real  indifference  to  extra  provisions. 

"  I  only  thought  of  intruding  myself  on  your  hospi- 
tality this  morning,"  said  he.  "  I  awoke  with  the 
sound  of  birds  singing  in  my  ears,  and  the  pattering 
down  of  apple  blossoms  showered  by  the  wind.  When 
I  opened  my  eyes  the  blossoms  had  all  fallen,  the  birds 


14  THE  POET  AND   PENELOPE 

were  hushed,  but  the  scent  of  violets  still  seemed  to 
fill  the  air.  I  knew  that  nothing  would  satisfy  me 
but  the  things  my  day  had  been  born  to,  and  so  I 
followed  an  inspiration  and  came  straight  to  you, 
who  live  ever  amongst  these  delights." 

"I  suppose  a  poet's  apple-trees  would  blossom  all 
the  year  round,"  said  Penelope,  nourishing  her  carving- 
knife  over  a  cold  fowl — "  like  spring  chickens ! "  she 
laughed.  "  I  can't  help  it,  and  I  know  the  fault  is  in 
myself,  but  you  do  seem  the  biggest  of  dear  old  sillies 
to  me,  when  you  try  to  speak  up  to  your  name  1 " 


CHAPTEE  II 

IN  SEARCH   OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL 

WHEN  the  Poet  visited  Blythedown  it  was  the 
invariable  rule  that  he  and  Penelope  should  go 
out  for  a  long  walk  directly  after  lunch.  The  Poet 
did  not  know,  but  he  always  fancied,  that  during 
their  absence  Auntie's  darkened  eyes  were  closed 
in  refreshing  slumber,  and  her  lifelong  delicacy  of 
health  made  the  supposition  a  not  unlikely  one: 
yet,  whatever  the  causes  which  led  to  it,  the  walk 
itself  was  a  thing  the  Poet  would  have  been  very 
unwilling  to  forego. 

There  was  another  institution  to  be  gone  through 
first,  however,  before  they  started  forth.  While 
Penelope  put  on  her  outdoor  things,  the  Poet  sat  by 
Auntie  and  told  her,  with  minute  thoroughness,  exactly 
how  Penelope  was  looking.  The  lady's  questions  were 
prompted  by  an  absorbing  love ;  the  Poet's  answers 
were  made  easy — well,  presumably  by  the  practice  of 
his  profession,  and  the  word-picture  he  painted  for  the 
eyes  which  could  not  see  was  at  least  almost  as  fair 
as  the  original — which  is  saying  a  good  deal  for 
both. 

But  although  he  conscientiously  surpassed  himself, 

is 


16  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

as,  in  his  estimation,  Penelope  surpassed  to-day  all  his 
previous  knowledge  of  her,  the  Poet  could  feel  an 
underlying  anxiety  marring  the  effect,  to  herself,  of 
Auntie's  appreciation.  And  presently  she  found  the 
words  for  which  she  had  been  visibly  seeking. 

"Lately  I  have  seemed  to  detect  something  in  my 
darling,"  Auntie  said,  "  which  may  be  new  or  always 
part  of  her ;  it  is  hard  for  me  to  judge.  I  want  you  to 
tell  me  what  you  think,  if  you  will  be  so  very  kind ; 
there  is  no  one  else  capable  of  judging  that  I  could 
bear  to  ask.  If  it  is  as  I  am  tempted  to  think,  I  am 
at  a  loss  to  understand  how  such  a  thing  could  have 
grown  out  of  her  monotonous  life,  in  this  dull  place, 
with  only  a  dull  old  woman  as  a  companion,  but  I 
have  always  felt  Penelope  was  in  some  way  unusual, 
beyond  the  bounds  of  my  prejudice.  I  find  it  rather 
difficult  to  explain  my  meaning ;  in  other  surroundings, 
amongst  such  people  as  you  tell  us  about,  would  my 
little  girl  be  considered  what  is  termed,  I  think — 
smart?" 

She  spoke  the  word  with  evident  unwillingness,  as 
though  she  found  something  painful  in  its  mere  sound. 
And  she  lowered  her  always  low  voice  a  perceptible 
tone  or  two,  so  that  the  astonished  Poet  only  just 
managed  to  catch  it.  This  was  the  very  question  which 
so  constantly  disturbed  him  in  Penelope's  presence  (he 
only  did  not  put  that  particular  word  to  it,  because  the 
world  he  lived  in  had  lately  abandoned  it),  and  the  fact 
that  Auntie,  quite  the  last  person  he  would  have 
suspected  of  such  a  thing,  had  alighted  on  the  same 
problem,  seemed  to  come  to  him  as  the  confirmation 
he  had  been  seeking.  And  this  made  it  extremely 


IN  SEAECH  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL       17 

difficult  to  him  to  find  a  satisfactory  answer  for  her 
at  a  moment's  notice. 

"  I  am  almost  afraid,"  he  said,  "  that  I,  too,  know 
her  rather  too  well  to  judge.  But  I  am  sure  just 
her  beauty  and  attractiveness  would  make  her  many 
friends,  anywhere,  and  in  that  sense " 

"That  is  not  a  sense  I  should  mind,  of  course," 
said  Auntie.  "But  do  you  think  that  is  all?" 

"  I  think  that  is  all  you  have   to  fear "  began 

the   Poet,   and  was  spared  from  further   committing 
himself  by  Penelope's  entrance. 

Auntie  smiled  gratefully  at  him,  and  he  at  Penelope  ; 
but  both  of  them  continued  to  wear  a  rather  guilty 
air,  which  she  immediately  detected. 

"^You  are  talking  about  me,"  she  said.  "Oh,  I 
know  you  are!  If  it  wasn't  getting  late,  I'd  make 
you  confess." 

"My  dear  child,"  said  Auntie  flurriedly,  "it  is 
getting  late." 

"  All  right ! "  laughed  Penelope,  "  now  I  know.  But 
I'll  spare  you  for  the  present,"  and  still  laughing 
gaily  she  led  the  Poet  off  in  triumph. 

* 

Penelope  continued  to  lead  the  Poet  along  at  a 
brisk  pace.  She  had  promised  him  a  wood,  and 
there  was  no  wood  forthcoming  nearer  than  the 
other  end  of  a  two-mile  walk.  The  way  lay  through 
winding  lanes,  guarded  on  either  side  with  tall 
hedges,  just  suspicioned  over  with  soft  green ;  past 
occasional  red-roofed  farmhouses  and  thatched 
cottages,  with  plant-blocked  windows  and  flourishing 
strips  of  garden  already  breaking  into  blossom. 


18  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

Every  yard  was  alive  with  subjects  and  impressions 
for  the  impressionable  Poet,  but  Penelope  hurried 
him  ruthlessly  on.  If  they  were  to  be  home  in 
anything  like  decent  time,  she  declared,  they  were 
bound  to  make  haste  to  the  wood,  and  back  from 
it.  For  she  knew  that  once  arrived  at  the  promised 
land,  he  would  not  be  content  to  immediately  turn 
tail  again.  He  would  want  to  sniff  round,  and  make 
his  usual,  absurd  little  discoveries  about  out-of-the- 
way  birds'  nests,  and  couches  of  verdant  damp  moss 
— in  reality  breathing  out  rheumatism  and  fungi — 
and  the  tracery  of  bronze  branches  against  the 
blue  and  white  sky,  and  so  on.  "Wouldn't  he  now? 

The  Poet  confessed  it  likely.  As  though  speaking 
out  loud  to  himself,  he  went  on  to  ask  why  he  was 
apparently  always  drawn  to  seek  as  his  guide  to 
the  innermost  secrets  of  Nature  the  most  worldly- 
minded  young  woman  of  his  acquaintance.  "Truly," 
he  added,  as  if  in  self -justification,  "just  on  the  out- 
side she  deceptively  suggests  an  embodiment  of  the 

artistic  temperament,  but  in  reality "  words  seemed 

to  fail  him. 

"  And  /  wonder,"  queried  Penelope,  in  like  fashion, 
"to  which  part  of  me  I  really  owe  the  continuation 
of  your  friendship  ?  To  my  artistic  exterior  or  my 
very  prosaic  mind  ? " 

That  was  a  question  which  the  Poet  would  not 
have  been  prepared  to  answer,  even  if  more  directly 
addressed.  Even  if  he  knew  the  correct  answer, 
which  is  extremely  doubtful.  Instead,  he  reminded 
Penelope  that  she  had  owned  to  particularly  wanting 
to  see  him  about  a  something,  and  that  a  more 


propitious  occasion  than  the  present  was  not  likely 
to  occur  in  which  to  reveal  its  subject.  But  Penelope 
said  she  knew  better. 

"You  are  like  a  child  with  a  toy,"  she  declared, 
"when  you  come  out  hunting  the  Beautiful,  and 
until  you've  played  your  fill,  nothing  else  really 
holds  your  attention.  And  nothing  less  than  your 
whole,  undivided  attention,  mind,  will  do  for  me 
this  time.  I  am  giving  you  the  first  innings — to 
serve  my  own  ends,  of  course — but  afterwards  I 
intend  to  have  mine,  and  all  undisturbed  by  your 
capital  N'd  nature,  on  the  way  home  from  your 
precious  wood." 

They  disputed  it  a  little,  but  in  the  end  they  met 
each  other  about  half-way. 

For  in  the  wood — which  more  than  realised  the 
Poet's  anticipations — was  discovered  a  recumbent  tree 
trunk,  in  itself  an  ideal  seat.  Beneath  it,  a  carpet 
of  crisp  leaves,  relics  of  last  Autumn's  unforgotten 
joys,  on  which  to  rest  their  feet.  Above,  spreading 
branches  for  window  frames  and  the  smiling  Heavens 
for  prospect.  In  all  the  place,  beyond  compare,  for 
the  expression  of  a  confidence ;  so  the  Poet  stoutly 
maintained. 

And  Penelope  allowed  herself  to  be  seated  and 
he  beside  her.  Further,  she  proceeded  to  tell  him 
all  about  the  Something,  the  while  he  listened  with 
tight  shut  eyes.  That  being  the  condition  she  made 
for  doing  so. 


CHAPTER  III 

HOW  THE  VASE  CAME  TO  LONDON 

Now  although  Penelope  carried  things  with  so  high  a 
hand,  dictating  her  conditions  as  one  who  prepares  to 
confer  a  favour,  it  presently  appeared  that,  as  the  Poet 
unpoetically  put  it,  the  boot  was  in  reality  resting  on 
the  other  leg.  It  is  worthy  of  note,  however,  that  for 
some  time  after  he  made  this  discovery  he  found  it 
still  paid  him  best  to  keep  his  eyes  shut. 

It  seemed,  then,  that  Penelope  had  received  a  wholly 
unexpected  invitation  from  an  old  friend  of  her  dead 
father's  to  come  to  town  and  share  for  a  little  while 
the  delights  of  the  Season.  Naturally,  Penelope  very 
keenly  desired  to  do  this  thing.  Auntie  was  fairly 
well,  for  her,  and  old  cousin  Jane  would  be  only  too 
glad  to  keep  her  company.  Also,  it  would  not  be  for 
long;  or  as  if  Blythedown  really  lay  so  remote  from 
London  as  some  of  its  inhabitants  imagined.  Any  day 
she  could  return  at  two  or  three  hours'  notice,  at  most. 
So  far,  everything  seemed  of  the  most  plain  sailing 
order. 

"  And  does  Auntie  know  ? "  queried  the  Poet,  with 


HOW  THE  VASE  CAME  TO  LONDON    21 

a  sudden  insight  into  the  immediate  source  of  the 
anxiety  Auntie  had  privately  expressed  to  him. 

Auntie  knew.  She  was  quite  stubbornly  bent  on 
Penelope's  going,  and  one  of  her  choicest  reasons  was 
retailed  for  the  Poet's  benefit:  "Then  my  conscience 
will  be  clear  for  a  little  while  of  keeping  you  out  of 
your  natural  sphere,"  she  had  said. 

"  Dear,  sweet,  innocent  old  Auntie ! "  commented 
Penelope.  "  Of  course  I  should  love  to  go,"  she  added 
mournfully. 

"  Then  you  will  go,"  said  the  Poet  slowly,  but  with 
conviction,  for  to  him  Penelope  always  seemed  to  do 
exactly  as  she  wished.  But  he  could  by  no  means  feel 
sure  that  he  agreed  in  this  wish  of  hers — not  all  in  a 
moment,  at  any  rate.  It  was  one  thing  to  amuse 
himself  with  wondering  how  Penelope  would  carry 
herself  in  a  room  full  of  people,  and  another  to  be 
presented  suddenly  with  almost  a  certainty  of  shortly 
knowing.  He  found  himself  surprised  at  the  deep  root 
the  idea  seemed  to  have  taken  in  him,  of  Penelope  as 
a  beautiful,  unexpected  product  of  the  soil  of  seclusion, 
keeping  ever  in  the  shade  of  that  seclusion,  with  all  her 
fresh,  youthful  bloom  untouched  as  the  consequence. 
Further,  it  flashed  on  him  that  if  not  unpleasant  to 
think  of  seeing  her  among  other  women,  and  of  thereby 
confirming  his  opinion  that  they  must  lose  in  interest 
beside  her,  this  would  also  entail  seeing  her  where  he 
would  certainly  not  be  the  only  man,  which  always 
seemed  so  easy  of  accomplishment  at  blessed  Ely  thedown. 
In  the  stress  of  all  these  feelings  he  came  to  moodily 
staring  in  front  of  him ;  a  lapse  which  Penelope  soon 
detected. 


22  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

"  There !  You've  your  eyes  wide  open  ! "  she  com- 
plained. "  And  if  you  will  not  do  your  part,  how  can  I 
do  mine  ?  It  means  that  I  can  never  ask  you  to  help 
me,  and  all  because  of  such  a  silly  little  thing.  And 
there  is  no  one  else  for  me  to  ask.  Oh !  it  is  not 
kind!" 

So  it  was  help  she  required  of  him.  Assured  of  this, 
although  not  convinced  of  his  wish  to  yield  it,  he  made 
it  in  the  meantime  possible  for  her  to  state  her  case  by 
closing  once  more  his  rebellious  eyes. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  "go  on.  I  assure  you  the  unkindness 
was  unintentional,  Penelope." 

But  Penelope  did  not  immediately  go  on.  Instead, 
while  the  Poet  silently  lost  himself  in  his  own  thoughts 
again,  she  pondered  a  private  matter  on  her  own  account. 
She  went  at  last  as  near  the  expression  of  it  as  she 
dared,  when  she  said  to  him  sharply — 

"  But  you  don't  want  me  to  go,"  and  she  only  gained 
what  she  expected,  when  he  started,  in  response,  a  not 
very  fluent  tide  of  polite  denial. 

That  unrevealed  thought  of  hers  had  concerned  a 
thing  which  had  never  presented  itself  to  her  before 
that  moment,  with  anything  like  the  same  distinctness. 
"  If  he  asked  me  to  marry  him  now,  I  would  say  yes," 
Penelope  thought,  "  and  I  would  never  tell  him  why  I 
want  to  accept  this  invitation  so,  and — and  I  would  not 
accept  it." 

But  the  Poet  failed  to  seize  this  moment,  which 
might  have  brought  him  so  much,  for  his  mind  also  was 
undecided  on  the  question  of  marrying  Penelope.  He 
had  been  lured  by  the  prospect  often  and  in  different 
moods ;  he  was  not  entirely  without  thought  of  it  now. 


HOW  THE  VASE   CAME  TO   LONDON    23 

It  was  that,  in  fact,  which  suddenly  caused  him  to  fancy 
it  might  after  all  be  good — for  him — that  she  should 
go.  Here,  in  Blythedown,  he  might  be  exaggerating  her 
charm,  but  in  his  accustomed  world  there  would  shine 
the  accustomed  strong  light,  which  must  make  it  im- 
possible to  continue  doing  so.  At  any  rate,  if  disguised 
as  a  little  evil,  good  might  still  come  of  it.  So  instead 
of  following  up  her  impatient  "  But  you  don't  want  me 
to  go!"  in  the  right  way,  instead  even  of  realising  any 
special  right  way  connected  with  it,  he  turned  his 
faltering  denials  into  urgent  ones  with  ready  art,  and 
Penelope  with  a  sigh,  half  of  relief,  yet  half  of  ex- 
asperation, went  on  at  length  to  explain  the  help  she 
required  of  him. 

Want  of  money,  it  seemed,  was  the  only  reason  left 
against  Penelope's  accepting  the  invitation  of  her 
father's  old  friend,  the  Duchess  of  Pentyre. 

"  What,  the  Duchess !  "  exclaimed  the  Poet. 

The  Poet  had  never  thought  of  Penelope  as  needing 
money,  nor,  she  assured  him,  had  she  ever  particularly 
wanted  it  before.  But  he  must  surely  know,  if  he 
reasonably  considered  the  matter,  that  such  clothes  as 
she  required  in  Blythedown  would  have  to  be  largely 
supplemented  to  carry  her  over  even  a  few  weeks  of  a 
London  season  ?  He  did  know  enough  to  see  this,  and 
with  his  eyes  shut. 

Auntie,  who  was  so  anxious  for  her  niece  to  go,  had 
offered  to  take  some  money  out  of  the  bank  to  supply 
this  deficiency ;  had  gone  so  far  as  to  press  Penelope  to 
allow  her  to  do  so,  but  how  could  she  ?  Penelope  asked 
of  the  Poet. 

"  You  see  I  am  quite  ignorant,"  she  went  on,  "  as  to 


24  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

what  she  has  in  the  bank.  I  don't  even  clearly  remember 
ever  hearing  her  mention  having  anything  there  before. 
She  is  always  a  wee  bit  mysterious  about  her  money 
affairs — she  is  as  innocent  and  unbusiness-like  as  a  baby, 
you  know — and  I  think  she  adopts  the  mysterious  as  a 
cloak  for  incompetence.  But  I  know  we  live  on  a 
yearly  income,  and  I  know  we  always  live  up  to  it. 
She  is  not  strong ;  something  might  happen — Oh !  if 
anything  did  happen,  how  should  I  feel,  if  I  had  spent 
the  extra  money  we  might  want  so  badly,  just  on 
clothes  ?  So  I  have  been  working  for  all  I  am  worth, 
both  at  glorifying  my  present  wardrobe,  and  at 
narrowing  my  future  necessity.  She  is  now  at  least 
almost  contented  that  I  shall  do  very  well  as  I  am, 
and  if  I  go — well  I  must  get  the  money  some  other 
way." 

"  How  I  wish  I  had  a  little  of  the  '  ready '  to  lend 
you ! "  bewailed  the  Poet. 

"  You  haven't.  But  if  you  had,  I  know  you'd  do  it, 
and  somehow  I  think,  perhaps,  I  shouldn't  mind  bor- 
rowing from  you.  Now,  why  is  that  ? " 

"  Because  you  know  I  haven't  got  it ! "  laughed  the 
Poet. 

"  No,  it  isn't !  No,  it  isn't !  And  I  will  prove  it, 
very  nearly  any  way,  by  showing  you  how  you  may  get 
it  for  me."  And  this  Penelope  now  proceeded  to 
do. 

Her  plan,  when  fairly  set  forth,  was  to  sell  something, 
and  so  realise  the  necessary  money.  And  the  assistance 
she  required  of  the  Poet  was  that  he  should  undertake 
the  actual  selling.  "For  I  know,"  she  assured  him 
with  a  smile,  "that  your  name  belies  some  of  your 


HOW  THE  VASE  CAME  TO  LONDON    25 

capacities  ;  that  you  don't  despise  a  bargain,  if  you  do 
make  rhymes." 

"  I  rhyme  first  that  I  may  bargain  afterwards — over 
the  rhymes,"  put  in  the  Poet. 

Penelope  had  gone,  on  her  own  showing,  very  care- 
fully over  her  possessions,  and  had  decided  that  there 
was  only  one  thing  amongst  them  she  could  safely  part 
with.  There  stood  in  a  lumber  room  a  great  bronze 
vase,  relegated  to  such  unbefitting  obscurity  in  obe- 
dience to  some  unexplained  whim  of  Auntie's.  Pene- 
lope's father  had  brought  this  vase  from  abroad,  and  so 
she  had  always  considered  it  her  own.  She  had 
lavished  much  admiration  on  its  beauties,  and  she  had 
long  ago  introduced  it  to  the  beauty-loving  Poet.  She 
had  even,  also  long  ago,  tried  to  persuade  Auntie  into 
allowing  it  a  position  in  the  house  more  calculated  to 
do  it  justice.  But  now  she  was  glad,  she  declared,  that 
for  once  she  had  been  denied  her  own  way. 

"  Auntie  hasn't  mentioned  it  for  years,  and  she  never 
goes  into  that  part  of  the  house  by  any  chance,"  ended 
Penelope,  "  so  I  am  sure  it  would  be  quite  safe  ;  she'd 
never  know.  And  it  is  to  save  me  from  vexing  her, 
isn't  it.  I  should  think  it  ever  so  dear  of  you — I  should 
never  leave  off  thanking  you,  if  you  would  do  it  for  me. 
Will  you  ?  Will  you  ? " 

The  Poet  was  not  proof  against  the  unending  gratitude 
Penelope  promised  him.  For  the  sake  of  keeping  up 
something  which  he  thought  of  as  his  "dignity,"  he 
grumbled  a  little  to  start  with,  but  not  enough  to  really 
overshadow  his  promise,  when  he  gave  it. 

"  I  will  do  it,  and  do  it  gladly,"  he  said  finally.  "  If 
it  is  to  be  done." 


26  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

"  Oh,  if  you  will  do  it,  I  know  you  can,  you  nice  dear  ! 
And  how  I  thank  you ! "  said  Penelope  as  a  first  instal- 
ment. 

Thus  Penelope  arranged  the  sending  of  the  Great 
Bronze  Vase  to  London,  while,  true  to  her  prediction, 
the  Poet  as  successfully  arranged  to  dispose  of  it  there. 

And  the  Duchess,  of  all  people  in  the  world,  was 
apparently  the  first  to  take  note  of  its  advent. 


CHAPTER  IV 

TO  THE  ACCOUNT  OF  THE   DUCHESS 

"  THEEE  was  something  I  wanted  to  say  to  you,  I  know." 
Pending  a  clearer  remembrance  the  Duchess  sat  down, 
looking  fixedly  across  the  study  at  the  Duke.  The 
Duke,  for  his  part,  turned  his  paper  carefully  over  and 
started  the  conscientious  perusal  of  a  fresh  sheet.  Now 
the  paper  was  not  the  Times,  but  perhaps  to  him  it 
proved  more  edifying,  and  the  place  where  they  sat  was 
always  called  the  Duke's  study. 

"I  wonder  what  it  could  have  been,  Duke,"  still 
pondered  the  Duchess.  Before  it  had  grown  second 
nature  with  her  she  had  been  in  the  habit  of  explaining 
to  her  intimates  her  reason  for  so  addressing  him,  by 
pointing  out  his  personal  likeness  to  a  mastiff,  which 
was  certainly  marked.  "There  were  two  things  at 
least,"  she  went  on,  "and  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me 
think  of  either  of  them.  How  provoking — how  in- 
tensely provoking!"  She  alluded  to  her  vagrant 
memory,  not  to  her  inattentive  husband,  for  she  always 
gave  it  as  one  of  the  chief  reasons  why  she  and  the 
Duke  got  on  so  admirably  together,  that  although  she 
always  made  a  point  of  telling  him — well,  more  than 

a 


28  THE  POET  AND   PENELOPE 

some  wives — she  left  it  entirely  to  his  own  discretion 
whether  he  listened  or  not. 

"  How  very,  very  provoking,  Duke — oh,  I  remember, 
though ! "  said  the  Duchess  all  in  one  breath.  "  It  was 
about  poor  Eeiner's  daughter,  of  course !  I've  asked 
her  to  come  to  us  directly  we  return  to  Town.  I  feel 
sorry  for  the  child;  I  want  her  to  have  a  good  time 
for  once  in  a  way.  She  has  been  cooped  up  all  these 
years  with  an  invalid  aunt,  blind  too,  I  believe.  It 
doesn't  sound  attractive,  and  for  her  father's  sake  I  am 
anxious  she  should  enjoy  herself  here." 

The  Duke  was  apparently  at  the  end  of  a  paragraph. 

"  Isn't  it  a  little  risky,"  he  asked,  "  considering  her 
probable  bringing  up,  if  she  will  ? " 

"  Enjoy  herself  ?  No,  I  think  that  will  be  all  right. 
Marian  (Marian  was  sister  to  the  Duchess)  met  her 
somewhere  a  little  while  back ;  we  had  quite  lost  sight 
of  the  child — and  it  is  she  who  has  persuaded  me  into 
asking  her;  she  herself  is  unable  to  do  so  herself 
just  now.  Marian  assures  me  that  there  isn't  a  trace 
of  her  bringing  up  about  her,  and  that  she  is  a  beauty. 
You  must  remember  what  a  handsome  man  poor 
Eeiner  was?" 

"A  beauty?"  queried  the  Duke,  with  a  decided 
addition  of  interest  in  his  tone.  "Eh?  Yes,  yes,  I 
recollect  Reiner  was  a  fine-looking  fellow;  good 
company  too."  Then  he  seemed  to  remember  some- 
thing else.  "There's  Colin,  in  a  deuced  unsettled 
state  of  mind  as  it  is.  You've  got  to  risk  something 
there  as  well." 

"  You  judge  every  one  by  yourself,"  said  the  Duchess, 
but  she  smiled.  So  did  the  Duke.  "  And  I've  asked 


TO  THE  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  DUCHESS   29 

her,  you  know,"  she  went  on.  "  I  couldn't  get  out  of  it 
now — if  you  wanted  me  to ! " 

So  the  Duke,  who  seldom  excited  himself  to  the 
point  of  interference,  especially  against  the  inevitable, 
settled  again  to  his  paper,  and  utterly  lost  the  Duchess' 
introduction  to  her  second  subject.  Only  becoming 
dimly  awake  to  it  when  it  was  already  in  full  swing. 

"  The  very  thing  I  have  been  wanting  for  ages,"  the 
Duchess  was  saying  in  her  best  manner.  "  That  empty 
corner  in  the  vestibule  at  Eaton  Square  has  always 
been  an  eyesore  to  me,  but  with  that  bronze  vase  on  a 
pedestal — a  very  slight  pedestal  would  suffice — set  well 
back,  it  would  be  a  different  thing  altogether.  There 
are  those  French  grey  curtains  that  used  to  be  in  my 
morning-room;  they  are  a  little  faded,  but  I  think 
Henson  might  make  one  out  of  the  two,  using  the  best 
parts,  and  they  are  unique  in  colour  and  design ;  that 
Eoyal  Academician  the  Poet  brought  here — I  can't 
remember  his  name — went  into  raptures  over  them. 
They  would  serve  admirably  as  a  background,  and  the 
whole  effect  would  be  most  artistic,  I  am  sure.  It  is 
an  inspiration — the  vase  is  so  cheap,  too.  Beautifully 
proportioned ;  stands  as  tall  as  I  do."  The  Duchess 
was — well  the  right  height  for  a  Duchess. 

"Um — eh?  What  are  you  talking  about?"  The 
question  of  a  vase  apparently  did  not  interest  her 
husband  quite  as  keenly  as  a  question  of  an  unknown 
girl's  looks  had  done.  His  manner  was  extremely 
short — even  for  a  Duke. 

The  Duchess  allowed  her  features  full  play,  because 
of  course  he  was  not  looking  at  her ;  and  they  played 
a  frown.  But  her  voice  was  just  as  sweet  as  ever. 


30  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

"  My  dear  !  It  is  that  bronze  vase  in  a  shop  window 
in  Bond  Street.  I  was  telling  you  how  I  covet  it  for 
the  empty  corner  in  the  vestibule  at  Eaton  Square. 
It  is  a  most  striking  ornament,  and  the  best  of  it  is 
that  it  is  nothing  of  a  shop,  at  least  I  think  there  are 
several  shops,  but  it  is  not  a  name  one  hears  much 
about." 

"  I  don't  see "  put  in  the  Duke  heavily,  and  the 

Duchess  recognised  at  once  the  voice  he  was  accustomed 
to  adopt  at  committee  meetings  (not  that  she  ever 
attended  any).  "Upon  my  word,  I  don't  see  what 
bearing  the  obscurity  of  the  shop  has  upon  the  case." 

"  It  wasn't  in  a  case,  it  was  in  the  window ! "  For 
the  life  of  her  she  could  not  help  it,  although  she  was 
a  Duchess  as  well  as  a  woman  with  a  fixed  purpose. 
"Oh,  well — no,  perhaps,  you  wouldn't,"  she  went  on, 
"  but  it  struck  me,  and  then  of  course — oh  I  know 
what  it  was — the  price !  It  is  ridiculously  cheap  as  it 
is,  I  have  made  enquiries,  and  I  thought  that  to  me — 
well,  you  know,  it  is  possible  that  he  would  be  willing 
to  take  less." 

The  Duke  got  up ;  he  buried  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  taking  three  steps  forward.  "It  is  out  of 

the  question "  a  sudden  turn  and  three  steps  back. 

"  It  isn't  to  be  done "  right-about  turn  and  three  steps 

forward  again.  "  Consider  the  state  of  agriculture 
alone."  A  deliberate  re-adjustment  of  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  and  then  the  quick  march  continued. 
"  With  three  out  of  four  of  all  the  farms  on  this  estate 
wanting  tenants " 

The  Duchess  realised  exactly  how  the  Duke's  steward 
was  wont  to  feel  at  those  trying  interviews,  which 


TO  THE  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  DUCHESS   31 

seemed  to  come  so  very  often  for  His  Grace  (oh!  no 
doubt  the  steward  would  feel  it  too),  and  she  only 
allowed  him  to  go  on  so  far,  because  she  had  always 
been  curious  to  see  what  he  looked  like.  The  tone  of 
his  voice  was  familiar  enough  to  her,  for  the  Duke  was 
long  past  minding  whether  the  door  was  shut 

"I   don't    suppose,"    she    interrupted  at   last,   "he 

would,  considering    everything "   (she  meant  the 

title  and  its  uses  as  an  advertisement,  but  did  not 
deem  it  necessary  to  put  it  more  plainly) — "require 
ready  money." 

"Just  as  well  for  him,"  said  the  Duke,  in  quite 
his  usual  manner. 

The  Duchess  would  have  let  her  account  run  on 
at  her  dressmaker's  or  her  tailor's  to  twice,  three 
times  the  amount  asked  for  the  vase  she  coveted 
without  a  thought — that  had,  at  any  rate,  reference 
to  the  Duke.  Why,  indeed,  she  had  seen  fit  to  consult 
him  beforehand,  instead  of  telling  him  afterwards, 
it  might  have  puzzled  her  to  explain.  And  very 
likely  she  had  already  begun  to  regret  an  unusual 
course. 

She  crossed  over  to  the  window,  out  of  which 
His  Grace  was  now  gazing  moodily. 

"My  dear  Duke,"  she  said.  "My  dear  Duke, 
who  is  that  extraordinarily  short  man  ?  It  is  the 
third  morning  this  week  I've  seen  him  hanging  about, 
I  declare." 

"He  is,"  said  the  Duke,  "he  is,  in  fact,  a  man — 
come  about  a  racer — er — in  fact  a  new  racer.  The 

fact  is "  he  stopped.    The  Duchess  was  once  more 

smiling ;  an  infectious  smile  which  he  caught. 


32  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

His  tone  when  he  next  spoke  reminded  her  of 
the  time  before  he  made  her  a  Duchess ;  longer  ago, 
perhaps,  than  you  would  have  thought,  looking  at 
her  as  she  stood  alone,  and  not  in  the  company  of 
her  grown-up  sons. 

"  We  are  quits ;  eh,  my  dear  ? "  he  said  as  he  went 
out  of  the  door  to  join  the  extraordinarily  short 
man. 

"I  wish  now,"  said  the  Duchess  to  herself  (she 
would  never  have  permitted  the  expression  to  any 
one  else)  "  that  I  had  gone  double — I  mean  a  pair  of 
vases ! " 


CHAPTEK  V 

A  SUM  IN  SIMPLE  MULTIPLICATION 

LADY  MARGERY  HUDDLESTON  JONES  sat  down,  a  look 
of  baffled  longing  struggling  hard  on  her  features  with 
an  intense  desire  to  laugh. 

She  was  in  the  bric-a-brac  shop  in  Bond  Street,  in 
full  view  of  the  great  bronze  vase ;  hence  the  longing. 
Also,  she  was  confronted  by  the  owner  of  the  shop,  and 
as  she  said  to  her  stepdaughter,  Miss  Eunice,  after- 
wards, "  My  dear !  It  was  the  funniest  thing  I've  ever 
seen ;  I  could  have  died  of  laughing !  "  At  present 
she  was  alone,  except  as  far  as  he  counted,  which  she 
felt  to  be  something  of  a  Providence.  Miss  Eunice, 
who  was  generally  her  companion,  having  failed  her 
at  the  last  moment. 

"  If  you  had  been  an  hour  earlier ! "  he  repeated 
solemnly.  He  was  a  tall,  thin  man,  and  his  manner 
was  most  impressive,  or,  to  quote  My  Lady,  "  great ! " 
"  But  now — I  regret — most  deeply,  I  assure  you." 
He  ventured  to  raise  his  eyes  to  her  ladyship's  face. 
(Oh!  she  did  not  mind).  "It  is  impossible.  It  is, 
as  I  have  said,  already  disposed  of.  Now,  if  only  you 
had  been  first ! "  The  Duchess  herself  could  not  have 
made  more  of  it  in  fewer  words. 

c  » 


34  THE  POET  AND   PENELOPE 

He  was  genuinely  sorry.  . 

For  the  Duchess  had  not  sat  looking  at  him  with 
piteous  eyes  and  a  small  fluffy  head  surmounted  by 
the  latest  thing  from  Paris,  set  sideways  (the  head, 
not  the  toque)  in  an  attitude  of  absolute  dejection. 
His  interview  with  the  Duchess,  an  hour  or  so  ago, 
had  been  short  and  strictly  business-like.  In  ten 
minutes  the  Duchess  had  done  the  whole  thing.  In- 
spected the  vase,  arranged  for  its  removal  at  a  rather 
distant  date — she  was  only  in  town  for  the  day — 
praised  it,  because  it  was  to  be  hers;  blamed  it,  for 
reasons  no  shopkeeper  is  supposed  to  understand. 
Doing,  in  the  shortest  possible  time,  everything  a 
Duchess  should  do  in  reference  to  the  purchasing  of 
a  costly  vase ;  which  did  not  of  course  include  paying 
for  it. 

"  Really !  Really ! "  said  My  Lady.  "  It  is  too  bad  ; 
it  is  indeed.  What  is  to  be  done  ? " 

"  It  is  a  thousand  pities,"  said  the  shopkeeper. 
There  could  be  no  doubt  at  all  that  he  felt  it  so,  and 
it  was  something  to  him  that  he  did  not  feel  at  all 
bound  not  to  show  it. 

"  It  is  such  a  lovely  vase,"  said  My  Lady. 

"It  is  considered  very  fine,"  assented  the  shop- 
keeper. 

"  It  is  such  a  shame,"  said  she. 

"  Most  unfortunate,"  he  agreed. 

There  was  another  chair;  he  almost,  not  quite,  sat 
down  too. 

"I  wanted  it  so  particularly.  A  lady  of  title,  you 
said,  I  think  ? "  she  paused ;  she  was  looking  quite 
her  best,  but  he  may  have  really  wanted  to  examine 


A  SUM  IN  SIMPLE  MULTIPLICATION    35 

closely  a  scrap  of  tracery  on  the  vase  just  then.  At 
any  rate  he  did  not  answer. 

Lady  Margery  never  bore  ill-will.  "  Of  course  you 
need  not  tell  me  unless  you  wish,"  she  said.  "It  is 
of  no  consequence,"  sweetly.  "Not  the  slightest," 
more  sweetly  still.  "  How  could  it  he  ?  "  most  sweetly, 
and  quite  softly  as  well. 

A  man  is  sometimes  very  glad  of  a  long  training ;  it 
brings  the  almost  impossible  within  reach.  There  is 
no  training  equal  to  that  gained  in  business,  so  the 
shopkeeper  felt  with  justifiable  pride.  Still  he  made 
haste  to  change  his  subject. 

"No,"  he  said,  and  then  went  on,  "There's  not 
another  like  it.  If  you  will  kindly  examine  this  piece 
of  design  just  below  the  border  here " 

"  Oh,"  interrupted  My  Lady,  "  I'd  rather  not.  What's 
the  good,  you  know?"  She  said  it  a  little  sharply, 
because  she  understood,  without  in  any  way  allowing 
for  the  fact,  that  he  was  at  his  wits'  end,  and  she 
wasn't  going  to  give  up  her  rdle  of  the  injured  person 
to  a  shopkeeper.  A  shopkeeper  first,  too,  and  only 
a  man,  as  it  were,  by  sufferance. 

It  might  have  been  some  small  satisfaction  to  know 
who  had  dared  to  be  beforehand  with  her,  and  even 
that  satisfaction  was  not  to  be  hers.  It  was  too  bad ; 
it  was  unbearable ! 

But  now  his  attitude  as  he  leant  over  the  vase,  the 
stereotyped  pose  of  a  shopkeeper  exhibiting  his  wares, 
gave  her  an  idea,  which  she  seized  upon  with  all  her 
usual  quickness. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "it  is  beautiful  It  is  perfectly 
sweet.  What  did  you  say  it  was  worth?" 


36  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

In  the  sudden  relief  her  change  of  tactics  gave  to 
his  overwrought  feelings,  the  shopkeeper  became  her 
easy  prey. 

"  I  sold  it  to  — er — the  lady  I — er — spoke  of — for  a 
thousand  pounds,"  he  said,  "  and  it  was  cheap  at  that, 
I  do  assure  you.  You  couldn't  get  another  at  that 
price;  you  couldn't  get  another  at  all,  in  fact."  He 
gave  a  regretful  sigh  and  an  apologetic  glance  at  My 
Lady,  sitting  upright  now,  her  blue  eyes  eagerly 
scanning  the  vase  as  though  she  would  fix  for  ever  on 
her  memory  its  bold,  impressive  curves  and  quaint  and 
deft  workmanship. 

"  There  is  not  another  made,"  he  ended. 

My  Lady  got  up.  She  came  close  to  the  vase.  She 
was,  perforce,  very  close  to  the  shopkeeper  also.  She 
nodded  her  head  and  a  gleam  of  sunshine,  streaming 
through  the  window,  caused  a  jewelled  buckle  on  the 
Paris  toque  to  glitter,  and  brought  out  all  the  brightness 
of  her  very  pretty  hair.  She  made  an  extremely  dainty 
figure  standing  against  the  Great  Bronze  Vase.  So  the 
shopkeeper  thought,  and  perhaps  his  face  was  an  ex- 
pressive one. 

My  Lady  darted  out  a  small  hand  in  the  direction 
of  the  vase.  She  laughed  mischievously. 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  "what  a  fuss  about  nothing!  I'll 
give  you  two ! " 

The  shopkeeper  looked  at  her  in  some  amazement. 
Did  she  really  think ? 

Her  evident  earnestness  and  an  air  of  having  said  all 
there  was  to  say,  were  written  so  plainly  upon  her  face 
in  spite  of  the  smiles  that  wreathed  it,  that  he  passed 
from  the  first  stage  of  virtuous  indignation  to  the  more 


A  SUM  IN  SIMPLE  MULTIPLICATION    37 

hopeful  one,  from  My  Lady's  point  of  view,  of  doubt 
and  uncertainty,  before  he  had  time  to  speak. 

•'  Do  you  mean  that  you  think ? "  he  began. 

"No,"  said  My  Lady,  "I  am  certain!  You  can't 
refuse  me.  I'll  write  you  out  a  cheque  in  a  minute. 
You  are  a  business  man,  and  of  course  you  can  think 
of  something  to  say  in  explanation.  You  can't,  I  know, 
refuse  me ! " 

The  shopkeeper,  for  all  his  training,  had  been  sorely 
beset  by  My  Lady  despondent ;  My  Lady  radiant  was 
too  much  for  him  altogether. 

He  was  but  mortal.  With  hardly  a  sigh  he  accepted 
his  fate  and  the  two  thousand. 

"  I  am  going  out  of  town  for  a  little  while,"  said  Lady 
Margery  Huddleston  Jones  on  her  way  out  of  the  shop. 
"  And  there  will  be  no  one  in  the  house  in  Park  Lane, 
— I  told  you  the  number  ? — but  servants,  and  they  are 
so  careless.  So,  if  you  send  it  by  the  end  of  the  month, 
I  think  that  will  be  best.  I  am  longing  to  have  it. 
You  will  know  what  to  say  to  the  other  lady!  Oh! 
with  a  smile,  "  you'll  have  to  write  at  once,  you  know." 

But  the  shopkeeper  watched  My  Lady's  carriage  till 
he  lost  sight  of  it  among  the  many  others  that  throng 
Bond  Street  in  the  middle  of  the  day.  Then  he  re- 
entered  his  shop  and  smiled  on  his  own  account,  as  he 
looked  at  the  fateful  vase. 

"  About  that,"  said  he  to  himself,  dropping  into  the 
vulgar  tongue,  which  is  so  much  less  strained  for 
thinking  in,  "  I'm  blowed  if  I  don't  use  my  own 
discretion." 


CHAPTER  VI 

AN  AFTERTHOUGHT 

IT  is  one  thing  to  take  a  step  on  the  impulse  of  the 
moment,  while  the  desire  to  take  it  is  still  strong  and 
compelling.  It  is  quite  another  thing  to  put  that  step 
in  the  very  best  possible  light  before  the  person  who 
will  have  to  pay  for  it.  And  more  difficult  still  is  it 
to  find  a  reason,  in  looking  back,  for  an  action  which, 
strictly  speaking,  had  no  connection  with  that  term. 

It  was  the  weight  of  these  conclusions  that  caused 
Lady  Margery  to  consider  herself  aggrieved  that  her 
husband  should  be  later  than  usual  on  that  particular 
night.  As  she  had  yet  to  make  up  her  mind  what 
course  she  proposed  to  take,  to  be  consistent,  it  ought 
to  have  pleased  her.  Consistency,  however,  was  not 
Lady  Margery's  strong  point. 

Her  most  prominent  wish  at  the  moment  was  to  have 
it  over  and  well  done  with.  Apparently  as  an  aid  to 
this  she  took  a  brief  but  comprehensive  glance  at  her- 
self in  the  glass,  when  at  last  she  heard  his  step 
approaching  his  smoking-room,  where  she  was. 

No  doubt  she  knew  best,  and  her  glass  at  all  events 
never  showed  her  anything  that  was  not  pleasing. 
a> 


AN  AFTEETHOUGHT  39 

"  John,"  said  Lady  Margery,  "  so  here  you  are  then  ! 
You  are  late."  She  said  it  in  no  way  reproachfully. 

John  Huddleston  Jones  sank  into  an  easy-chair  with 
a  sigh  of  relief.  It  was  in  the  small  hours  of  the 
morning,  and  he  was  of  an  age  and  temperament  to  be 
more  tired  by  such  hours  than  was  Lady  Margery. 

"  Yes,  the  debate  was  unusually  interesting,  but  I  am 
glad  to  be  here."  He  settled  himself  as  one  who  knew 
how  to  make  the  most  of  the  present,  and  looked 
approvingly  across  at  his  wife  ;  he  had  every  right. 

"  That's  nice,"  said  My  Lady  encouragingly,  As  an 
opening  it  was  quite  to  her  taste.  But  it  seemed  to 
have  this  disadvantage,  that  it  did  not  at  first  lead  to 
much. 

John  Huddleston  Jones  sat  thinking  the  thoughts  of 
an  active-brained  man  of  the  world  and  the  money 
market,  while  My  Lady  tapped  the  fender  rail  with  a 
beaded  slipper. 

He  was  the  first,  however,  to  break  the  silence. 

"  I  suppose  it's  all  right  ? "  he  said.  "  The  family  are 
as  poor  as  church  mice  and  most  of  them  up  to  their 
eyes  in  debt." 

The  remark,  unprefaced,  seemed  irrelevant,  but  My 
Lady  was  essentially  one  of  those  on  whom  explanations 
seem  thrown  away. 

"  But  that,"  she  said  comprehendingly,  "  doesn't 
matter  much  to  us,  does  it,  dear  ?  If  Eunice  loves  him, 
that  is  so  much  more  important  than  the  money  ques- 
tion, isn't  it  ? " 

Put  that  way,  it  certainly  did  not  signify  much  to 
John  Huddleston  Jones,  millionaire,  as  she  knew.  He 
had  a  very  warm  heart  and  a  comfortable  pride  in  his 


40  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

own  golden  hoards.  Also  she  understood  him  well 
enough  to  know  that,  for  all  his  calmness,  the  engage- 
ment just  made  public  of  his  only  daughter,  Eunice,  to 
Lord  Colbeck,  eldest  son  of  the  Duke  of  Pentyre,  was  a 
much  bigger  thing  from  his  point  of  view  than  from 
hers.  Since  she  valued  a  good  many  things  as  much  as 
a  title  (never  having  known  the  want  of  one)  and  some 
even  more ;  an  unlimited  account  at  one  banker's,  for 
instance. 

Her  husband  let  himself  slide  back  into  the  content- 
ment he  sought,  but  slowly.  He  felt  it  was  due  to 
himself  to  make  no  indecent  show  of  haste. 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course,"  he  said,  "happiness  ought 
to  come  first."  With  his  eyes  on  his  young  and  pretty 
wife,  he  was  not  thinking  only  of  his  daughter  Eunice. 
"  And  I  have  no  objection  to  finding  the  money,  if  he 
makes  her  happy.  There  is  plenty  of  it  to  spare — 
for  a  reasonable  object,"  he  ended,  the  instincts  of  the 
counting-house  coming  uppermost,  and  with  a  smile 
which  seemed  emblematical. 

My  Lady  ignored  the  exact  tenor  of  his  words,  but 
caught  at  his  smile. 

"  Oh !  I've  something  to  tell  you,"  she  said.  "  I  think 
you'll  be  pleased,  too."  Then  it  occurred  to  her,  as  it  so 
often  did  at  about  that  stage,  to  embellish  her  subject 
from  the  outside. 

"  We  shall  have  to  give  a  big  party  before  very  long," 
she  went  on.  "  It  will  be  expected  of  us,  you  know, 
under  the  circumstances." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  so,"  said  John  Huddleston  Jones, 
but  not  as  if  he  longed  for  the  time  very  ardently. 
"  Am  I  to  be  pleased  with  that  prospect  ? "  he  ques- 


AN  AFTEKTHOUGHT  41 

tioned,  with  a  twinkle  of  amusement  it  would  never 
have  struck  him  to  repress. 

"No,"  said  My  Lady,  smiling  back,  but  from  a 
different  cause.  "  Oh  no !  your  pleasure  is  to  come 
from  a  vase  I  bought  in  Bond  Street  this  morning ;  it 
is  such  a  beauty !  I  am  sure  that  even  you  will  be  at 
a  loss  to  find  fault  with  it." 

The  emphasis  on  the  personal  pronoun  was  a  skilful 
allusion  on  My  Lady's  part  to  her  husband's  taste 
in  such  matters,  which,  it  must  be  explained,  would  have 
done  credit  to  a  peer  or  an  art  dealer. 

"  Is  it  really  good  ? "  his  tone,  it  may  also  be  as  well 
to  confess,  was  a  doubtful  one. 

"  It  is  perfect."  She  was  warming  to  her  subject. 
"  Perfectly  beautiful.  It  has  created  quite  a  furore. 
Eunice  tells  me  she  heard  the  Duchess  and  Lady 
Weston  talking  about  it.  They  were  in  raptures " 

"  Bless  me !  The  Duchess ! "  broke  in  John  Huddle- 

ston  Jones  with  unassumed  indifference.  "  She  bought 
that  pair  of  vases  that  stand  to  the  right  as  you  go  into 
the  big  drawing  room  in  Eaton  Square.  The  Duke  let  it 

out,  and  they "  words  failed  the  connoisseur.  My 

Lady  filled  up  the  gap  with  a  laugh. 

"  You  may  trust  me,  John,"  she  said,  "  I'm  not  the 
Duchess,  you  know,  and  I  wanted  to  buy  this  vase,  not 
because  any  one  else  admires  it,  but  because  I  am  jus' 
in  love  with  it.  And  as  a  memento,  a  big  memento,  of 
a  big  occasion.  It  has  made  me  feel  that  I  must 
do  something  festive  on  my  own  account."  She  added 
the  last  sentence  in  a  plaintive  voice,  and  as  an  after- 
thought, but  uselessly. 

The  business  man  was   aroused  at  once  in  John 


42  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

Huddleston  Jones  by  the  fatal  word  "big,"  as  she 
knew  it  would  be  the  moment  she  had  uttered  it.  He 
took  it  from  whence  it  came,  having  knowledge  of  My 
Lady. 

With  admirable  bravery  she  did  what  she  could. 
She  got  up  hastily  to  pass  him  a  small,  gilt  ash-tray, 
with  a  look  that  made  it  seem  of  small  moment  that 
he  had  thrown  the  end  of  his  cigar  into  the  fire  some 
five  minutes  earlier. 

"  Little  woman,"  he  said,  smiling  up  at  her  from  the 
depths  of  his  arm-chair.  "Are  you  going  to  tell  me 
the  price  of  this  wonderful  vase  of  yours  to-night — or 
not?" 

For  the  second  time,  with  the  choice  of  his  words 
and  his  smile  before  her,  My  Lady  chose  the  latter. 
For  she  also  was  a  connoisseur,  where  such  matters 
were  concerned. 

"  You  old  dear ! "  she  said  delightedly.  "  It  is  a  case 
of  now  or  never,  I'm  afraid,"  she  ended,  in  a  sudden  fit 
of  compunction. 

"  I  shall  be  able  to  find  out,  I  suppose,  if  I  want  to." 
He  was  not  beyond  liking  it  to  be  felt  that  he  was 
conceding  a  good  deal. 

But  My  Lady  was  not  the  one  to  overlook  that  part. 

"  I  shall  not  mind  your  finding  out  a  bit  now,"  she 
said,  with  a  trustful  glance  which  would  have  made  a 
much  harder  man  than  John  Huddleston  Jones  feel 
that  to  find  the  price  not  after  all  so  very  exorbitant, 
would  disappoint  him. 

A  thought  which  was  not,  however,  accompanied 
with  much  misgiving. 

"Well,**  she  said,  a  few  minutes  later.     "It  is  a 


AN  AFTEKTHOUGHT  43 

splendid  vase — really  !  And  I  am  longing  for  you  to 
see  it"  She  could  say  it  quite  honestly  as  things  had 
turned  out.  "  And  it  was  the  merest  chance  I  was 
able  to  have  it,  for  the  shopkeeper  —  such  a  droll 
man — had  really  sold  it  to  some  one  else.  At  least  he 
said  so.  I  had  to  get  round  him,  you  know." 

John  Huddleston  Jones  nodded.  He  knew — no  one 
better. 

"  To  some  one  very  important,  I  think.  Anyhow,  he 
would  not  tell  me  who  it  was,  which  looks  like  it, 
doesn't  it  ? " 

"  Yes,"  her  husband  assented.  He  quite  understood, 
as  well  as  other  things,  why  she  brought  that  in. 

When  My  Lady  had  left  him  the  thought  of  her  last 
purchase  still  lingered  with  him. 

"It  must  have  been  jolly  expensive  ! "  he  mused  over 
the  lighting  of  his  last  cigar.  Then  he  smiled,  for  he 
could  afford  to. 

"  What  an  old  dear  he  is,"  commented  My  Lady  on 
her  way  upstairs.  "Not  that  it  is  really  anything 
much  to  him,  after  all."  (She  was  thinking,  of  course, 
of  the  price  of  the  vase.)  "  He  almost  made  me  wish 
somehow  that  it  would  have  affected  him — and  that  I 
hadn't  bought  it ! " 

Again  an  inconsistent  wish,  and  not  calculated  to  be 
lasting. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  BALL  SET  ROLLING 

"EUNICE!  stand  up  for  me!"  said  Lady  Margery. 
"  Joking  apart,  isn't  it  beautiful  ? " 

"  Yes,  Mr  Mason,  it  really  is ;  truthfully." 

"  Miss  Eunice,  you  are  always  to  be  relied  on.  Give 
me  an  authentic  description  of  this  remarkable 
vase." 

Although  he  spoke  to  Miss  Eunice,  Mr  Mason  looked 
at  My  Lady,  who  made,  it  must  be  owned,  a  face  at 
him. 

"  And  be  careful,  Eunice,"  said  she.  "  When  a  tale 
is  to  have  a  wide  circulation  it  ought  to  start  all 
correct." 

Mr  Mason  did  not  make  a  face ;  perhaps  he  thought 
it  would  be  difficult  to  improve  on  his  own,  but  he 
laughed,  carelessly. 

"  Bravo !     Capital ! "  said  he. 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Eunice,  "to  begin  at  the  beginning, 
I  must  tell  you  this  vase  is  very  much  admired.  I  have 
heard  a  great  many  people  talking  about  it,  and  the 
Duchess" — here  Eunice  blushed  very  becomingly — "is 
simply  wild  to  have  it" 


THE  BALL  SET  BOLLINQ  45 

"  And  you  have  bought  it  ? "  said  Mr  Mason,  turning 
to  My  Lady.  "  Good  Lord !  you  are  brave,  I  think." 

"  You  are  a  bad  young  man,  /  think,"  said  My  Lady 
severely,  "  to  try  and  undermine  in  this  way  Eunice's 
faith  in  her  future  mother-in-law." 

«  But "  he  said,  "  I  say  though ! "  Then  he 

turned  again  to  Miss  Eunice  and  finished  with,  "  I  beg 
your  pardon  for  interrupting.  Go  on,  will  you  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Eunice  again,  "  it  is  from  a  shop  in 
Bond  Street,  I  forget  the  name,  and  it  is  such  a  monster 
vase  that  it  takes  a  window  to  itself ;  very  imposing  it 
looks,  I  can  tell  you.  The  drapery  in  the  window  is 
all  a  sort  of  French  grey,  and  the  vase  is  bronze,  you 
know." 

"As  the  Duchess  would  say,  'most  artistic,'"  said 
Charlie  Mason,  with  such  a  happy  imitation  of  the 
Duchess'  manner  at  her  best,  that  even  Miss  Eunice  was 
obliged  to  smile. 

Lady  Margery's  bright  laughter  rang  out  fearlessly. 
"What  a  fellow  you  are!"  she  cried,  as  soon  as  she 
could  speak  for  merriment.  "  That's  lovely !  I'd  give 
you  anything  you  like — oh  yes,"  in  answer  to  a  look 
from  Charlie,  who,  though  young,  was  by  no  means 
backward,  "  I'd  sit  out  the  longest  dance  with  you  that 
ever  was,  with  the  Duchess  looking  on,  if  only  you'd  do 
that — to  her  face ! " 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  "  I'd  rather  not.  The  dinners 
at  Eaton  Square  are  lengthy,  but,"  with  a  bow,  "  the 
company  is  sometimes  worth  it.  And  if  she  didn't 
see,  others  might.  Goodness !  here's  Laister.  So  he's 
here,  is  he  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Mr  Laister,"  said  My  Lady.    "How  nice  1    Sit 


46  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

down.  You  are  just  in  time.  We  can  supply  you  with 
a  subject  that  will  be  worthy  of  you  at  last."  Her  eyes 
were  dancing  mischievously  as  she  made  the  last 
addition,  but  she  turned  them,  perhaps  as  a  safeguard, 
on  young  Charlie  Mason. 

The  Hon.  Laurence  Albert  Laister,  best  known  to 
his  friends  as  the  Poet,  sank  into  an  easy-chair,  with  as 
an  easy  a  grace,  and  looked  round  expectantly. 

"  Now,  Eunice,  you'll  have  to  begin  again,"  went  on 
My  Lady,  "  and  then  Mr  Laister  will  have  no  excuse 
for  neglecting  such  a  chance.  You  ought  to  be  very 
much  obliged  to  us,  Mr  Laister." 

"  I  am,  overwhelmingly  so,"  said  he.  "  There  remains 
nothing  I  desire  but  to  know  what  for." 

'•I  like  you  so  much,"  said  Lady  Margery  approvingly, 
"because  you  are  so  refreshingly  wide-awake — for  a 
Poet." 

"  Perhaps  the  fashions  in  poets  change  as  they  do  in 
collars,"  he  answered  lightly.  "  At  present,  even  turned- 
down  collars  are  worn  standing  up.  But  go  on,  please," 
to  Miss  Eunice,  "I  must  not  throw  away  my  oppor- 
tunities. An  up-to-date  poet  is  nothing  if  not 
business-like." 

He  did  not  even  look  at  My  Lady,  but  Charlie 
Mason  did,  with  a  murmured  "  Bravo !  Capital ! "  for 
her  ear  alone,  and  although  My  Lady  frowned  on  him, 
he  still  sat  smiling,  as  if  he  had  discovered  a  joke. 

"We  were  talking,"  said  Miss  Eunice  gravely  (and 
she  at  any  rate  was  guiltless  of  the  joke),  "  about  a  vase 
that  has  been  very  much  admired  of  late  in  a  shop 
window  in  Bond  Street.  A  great  big  thing ;  as  tall  as 
you,  I  should  think,  Mr  Laister." 


THE  BALL  SET  ROLLING  47 

The  Poet  nodded,  rather  curtly.  For  he  was  short 
for  a  man  whatever  he  might  have  been  as  a  vase,  and 
like  most  little  men  he  was  somewhat  sensitive  about 
his  inches  ;  also  he  frowned,  but  Miss  Eunice's  remark 
was  not  wholly  accountable  for  that,  although  the 
suppressed  cough  My  Lady  gave,  and  the  added  width 
of  Charlie  Mason's  smile,  showed  what  they  thought 
about  it.  But  the  Poet  was  picturing  himself,  out  of 
the  past,  as  a  martyred  spirit  sitting  in  the  heart  of  a 
spring  wood,  surrounded  by  countless  budding,  blossom- 
ing inspirations,  to  which  he  was  honour  bound  to  close 
his  eyes  ;  being  bullied,  as  he  would  have  said,  into  an 
action  he  had  regarded  at  the  time  as  of  doubtful 
wisdom.  An  action  which  seemed  destined,  moreover, 
to  have  very  surprising  results.  Then  a  sweet  high 
voice  was  set  ringing  in  his  ears — 

"  /  should  think  it  ever  so  dear  of  you,  I  should  never 
leave  off  thanking  you,  if  you  would  do  it  for  me.  Will 
you?  Will  you?"  And  a  vision  of  Penelope  came, 
as  it  so  often  did,  to  Penelope's  rescue. 

The  Poet's  frown  melted,  and  Miss  Eunice,  at  whom 
he  seemed  to  be  gazing,  was  struck  afresh  by  what  she 
took  to  be  the  expressiveness  of  his  mournful  and 
even  beautiful  eyes. 

"  Every  one  has  been  talking  about  it,"  Miss  Eunice 
was  saying. 

"  Even  the  Duchess,"  said  Mr  Mason. 

"Especially  the  I>uJ3ess,  I  think  we  might  say," 
amended  Lady  Margery. 

His  rather  oppressive  sense  of  connection  with 
the  vase  made  the  Poet,  at  this  point,  nervously 
glad  there]  should  be  something  he  could  truth- 


48  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

fully  say  about  it  without  endangering  Penelope's 
secret. 

"I  believe,"  he  said,  referring  to  the  Duchess,  "I 
heard  something  of  it  from  her.  It  is  a  bronze  vase, 
isn't  it?  I'm  almost  sure  she  said  something." 

"We're  not  disputing  it,"  from  the  irrepressible 
Charlie. 

"  I  was  almost  under  the  impression,"  he  concluded, 
"  that  she  had  bought  it."  The  Duchess'  communica- 
tion had  been  really  as  vague  as  he  had  expressed  it, 
and  he  was  most  anxious  to  make  sure. 

"  I  have  bought  it,"  said  My  Lady  with  pardonable 
triumph. 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Eunice,  "Margery  has  bought  it. 
Shall  I  go  on,  Margery  ? " 

"  Why,  of  course,"  said  My  Lady. 

"  She  went  all  by  herself  to  buy  it.  I  was  prevented, 
and  I  suppose  the  shopkeeper  was  very  funny." 

"It  was  quite  the  funniest  thing  I've  ever  seen," 
said  My  Lady,  dimpling  all  over  her  face  at  the  mere 
recollection. 

"Then  I'm  not  mistaken;  it  is  the  same  vase," 
thought  the  Poet,  emerging  into  certainty  through 
the  mist  of  his  last  doubt. 

"  Was  he  nice-looking  ?  "  Charlie  Mason  was  asking. 
He  was  a  young  man  always  athirst  for  information, 
but  on  this  occasion  no  one  answered  him. 

"  And  it  seems  he  was  very  troubled  that  he  could 
not  sell  the  vase,"  went  on  Eunice,  "having  done  so 
already,  to  some  one  else." 

"  I  thought  you  said  you  bought  it»w  said  the  Poet 
reprovingly  to  My  Lady. 


THE  BALL  SET  KOLLING  49 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.    "  It  took  a  long  time." 

"What?" 

"  To  make  him  change  the  purchaser,  you  know." 

"  Only  time  ? "  asked  the  Poet. 

"  I  think,"  said  Lady  Margery  reflectively,  "  after  all, 
the  old  kind  of  poets  were  the  nicest." 

"  Did  you  consider  well,"  asked  Charlie  Mason — there 
was  an  ominous  twinkle  in  his  eye — "all  that  might 
ensue  from  such  a  proceeding?  Now,  for  instance, 
this  shopkeeper " 

"  He  was  really  charming,"  said  My  Lady.  "  I  won't 
hear  a  word  against  him." 

"  Happy  shopkeeper ! "  sighed  the  Poet,  with  quite 
professional  fervour.  "Who  is  like  unto  thee?" 

"  Don't  be  silly,"  said  My  Lady.  "  I  have  thought 
since,"  she  went  on,  "that  perhaps  he  hadn't  really 
promised  it  at  all,  but  did  it  to — you  know " 

"  Prolong  the  interview  ? "  suggested  Charlie,  who 
never  himself  lost  a  chance  of  the  kind. 

"Or  the  price?"  said  the  up-to-date  Poet 

rt  Oh !  as  you  like  it ! "  said  My  Lady.  "  But  I  should 
rather  not  have  that  part  of  it  mentioned,  please,"  she 
said  presently.  "  It  might  seem  a  little  as  if  I  had 
been  had ;  don't  you  think  so  ?  At  the  time  it  seemed 
worth  anything,  I  wanted  it  so  dreadfully.  You  shall 
see  it  for  yourselves  when  we  get  back  to  Town. 
(They  were  at  Brighton).  And  now,  really,  Mr 
Laister,  haven't  we  given  you  a  theme  worthy  of 
your  muse?" 

"There  is  a  trifling  trick  of  detail,  perhaps,"  said 
he. 

"  You  are  so  clever,"  put  in  Miss  Eunice,  "  that  you 

D 


50  THE   POET  AND   PENELOPE 

can  make  so  much  out  of  so  little."  It  seemed  as 
though  the  subject  did  not  strike  her  very  forcibly, 
either. 

"  If  you're  really  stumped,  old  chap,"  said  the  ever- 
ready  Charlie,  "there's  still  the  shopkeeper.  I've  no 
doubt — if  you  bought  a  few  things  first,  say — you  could 
manage " 

"Well,  at  any  rate,"  interrupted  the  Poet,  "it 
won't  be  for  the  want  of  kindly  interest  that  I  shall 
fail." 

"And  it  isn't  generally  that,"  said  Charlie  Mason 
shortly,  "  which  floors  our  modern  poets." 

The  lights  had  been  brought  in,  they  were  sitting  in 
the  dusk  before,  and  perhaps  young  Charlie  Mason 
resented  the  use  this  particular  poet  made  of  his 
fine  eyes. 

After  the  young  men  had  departed,  Miss  Eunice 
apparently  went  over  much  of  this  conversation  in 
her  mind. 

My  Lady  sat  opposite,  thinking  her  own  thoughts, 
and  she,  at  any  rate,  to  judge  from  her  face,  was 
contented. 

"  I  quite  forgot,  Margery,"  Eunice  said  at  last,  "  when 
we  were  telling  them  about  the  vase,  what  inveterate 
talkers  they  both  are.  Why !  Margery !  It  may 
even  reach  the  ears  of  the  person  who  first  bought 
it!" 

She  was  very  much  in  earnest,  but  My  Lady  sat 
laughing  as  though  she  would  never  cease. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?"  asked  Miss  Eunice 
more  than  once,  but  My  Lady  did  not  answer. 


THE  BALL  SET  EOLLING  61 

When  she  did  speak,  what  she  said  had  no  very 
evident  bearing  on  the  subject. 

"  I  think  Lord  Colbeck  must  be  what  Charlie  Mason 
said  I  was — very  brave — or,"  under  her  breath,  "  very 
much  in  debt" 


OHAPTEE  VIII 

AN  INSUFFICIENT   SUBSTITUTE 

JUST  about   this  time    the    Poet  wrote   a   letter  to 
Penelope. 

Was  she  aware,  he  asked,  what  a  pretty  mess 
she  had  landed  him  into?  or  was  likely  to  land 
him  into,  at  any  rate  ?  and  at  no  very  distant  date. 
He  had  come  to  her,  he  vowed,  in  all  innocence, 
his  thoughts  only  intent  on  gathering  into  his  life 
the  fresh,  new  life  of  the  new  springing  year.  To 
harvest  it  in  heart  and  brain,  until  it  should  be  given 
to  him  to  spread  it  forth  afresh;  that  others  might 
share  with  him  the  undying  delight  Spring  awakens 
in  every  breast,  for  its  birds,  its  fields,  and  its  flowers 
— for  all  the  first-fruits  of  sleepy  Nature's  morning 
hours. 

And  how  had  he  been  met?  Into  what  clinging, 
baffling  web  of  deceit  had  she  led  him?  The  slave 
of  an  act,  held  captive  to  an  acted  lie  He  whom 
she  had  cajoled  into  selling  her  vase  for  her,  was  he 
to  be  haunted  by  it  ever  more  ? 


AN  INSUFFICIENT  SUBSTITUTE         63 

For  now,  who  did  she  think  had  bought  this  vase 
— her  very  vase,  without  a  douht  ?  Well,  one  of  his 
greatest  friends,  one  of  the  nicest  women  in  London, 
and  one,  moreover,  she,  Penelope,  would  be  certain  to 
meet  wherever  she  went  when  she  came  up,  even  had 
she  not  happened  to  be  stepmother  to  Lord  Colbeck's 
jiancde. 

Nor  was  that  all;  for  it  seemed  he  could  not  pay 
a  visit  now,  but  every  one  must  be  babbling  of  vases. 
The  topic  was  filling  the  town,  as  she  would  find  out, 
sure  enough.  Even  the  Duchess  had  flung  at  him 
descriptions,  yards  long,  which  had  beaten  him  down 
in  his  confusion  of  spirit  and  loading  of  unaccustomed 
deception,  as  daisies  are  beaten  down  in  the  long 
grass  by  wild  rain.  And  when  she  had  realised,  as 
she  must,  the  weight  of  even  one  of  the  Duchess' 
descriptions,  she  would  begin  to  understand  a  little 
what  he  was  suffering — and  not,  he  supposed,  before — 
suffering  for  her  sake. 

"  If  there  is  balm  still  fragrant  in  Gilead,"  wrote  the 
artful  Poet  at  this  point,  "there  it  lies  in  those  few 
words — for  your  sake,  Penelope." 

And,  he  went  on  to  ask,  when  was  she  coming? 
Surely  she  had  better  hurry,  or  the  atmosphere  of 
London  would  have  become  so  thick  with  vases  that 
there  would  be  nothing  else  left  to  see.  Surely  she 
had  better  hurry,  if  only  to  make  friends  of  the  wives 
of  Mammon  before  they  should  become  lost  to  Society, 
each  hidden  beneath  a  great  bronze  vase,  as  were  the 
Forty  Thieves  of  history,  and  he  and  his  kind  alone  left 
sorrowing. 

"  Surely  you  had  better  hurry,"  ended  the  Poet>  with 


54  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

a  characteristically  personal  touch,  "for  my  sake, 
Penelope." 

Then  having  suitably  closed  his  letter,  he  broke 
out  again  in  postscript. 

"  They  are  worrying  the  life  out  of  me  to  celebrate 
this  vase  of  yours  with  some  verses,  but  I  can't  do 
that,  can  I  ?  " 

When  the  letter  reached  Penelope  she  was  ready 
dressed  to  go  out,  but  she  waited  to  read  it  through, 
twice  at  least,  before  she  actually  started.  She  tucked 
it  into  the  sleeve  of  her  coat  and  made  sure  that  her 
hat  was  just  right.  Then  she  hurried  down  the  garden 
path,  apparently  bent  on  redeeming  her  lost  time. 
But  at  the  gate  her  attention  was  arrested. 

For  there  flourished  a  clump  of  daffodils,  the  flowers 
yet  unopened,  but  the  tender  green  of  the  straight 
leaves  standing  out  in  admirable  contrast  against  a 
background  of  sombre-hued  box-hedge.  The  Poet's 
influence,  newly  emphasized  in  Penelope  by  his  letter, 
further  kindled  in  her  an  appreciation  of  his  probable 
attitude  towards  the  picture  thus  produced  ;  a  picture 
it  would  have  been  quite  beyond  him  to  pass  without 
comment. 

"  How  pretty  you  are,"  said  Penelope,  for  her  part. 
"  I'm  sure  I  wonder  I've  not  noticed  you  before." 

She  had  business  to  transact  at  several  shops  in  the 
small  country  town.  She  had  letters  to  post  and  a 
telegram  to  send  off  in  reference  to  an  interview  with  a 
West-End  dressmaker.  The  Duchess  had  apologized, 
in  asking  her,  for  the  length  of  notice  she  had  given 
previous  to  the  visit,  but,  as  it  happened,  it  was 
especially  fortunate — as  it  may  even  have  been  intended 


AN  INSUFFICIENT   SUBSTITUTE         55 

to  be.  Indeed,  with  regard  to  this  visit  to  London,  luck 
seemed,  to  the  casual  observer,  in  league  with  Pene- 
lope. 

The  result  of  the  Poet's  bargaining  might  have 
appeared  to  him  less  successful,  had  he  been  aware  of 
the  fancy  price  with  which  Lady  Margery  tempted  the 
shopkeeper  (but  that  was  a  secret  My  Lady  had  kept, 
so  far,  even  from  the  man  who  must  pay  it)  ;  still  Pene- 
lope, who  was  most  concerned  with  his  part  of  the 
transaction,  was  fully  satisfied,  as  she  had  made  haste 
to  declare. 

"  I  shall  look,  oh !  ever  so  nice,  you'll  see,"  she  had 
written  to  him  in  her  letter  of  thanks  for  his  account 
of  the  deed  and  the  accompanying  cheque.  "You 
hardly  know  yet  what  a  talent  I  possess  for  dressing 
becomingly."  This  talent  she  had  been  exercising 
vigorously  ever  since,  and  she  was  not  without  justifi- 
cation in  her  prospective  pleasure  in  the  result. 

But  when  her  errands  were  finished,  Penelope 
wandered  a  little  before  going  home  along  the  way  to 
the  wood ;  the  wood  to  which  she  had  taken  the  Poet. 
And  all  thoughts  of  her  own  abilities  left  her,  while 
she  concentrated  her  attention  on  his  possibilities 
instead.  And  although  she  even  endeavoured  to  con- 
sider those  possibilities  in  a  strictly  general  sense,  it 
must  be  admitted  that  it  was  chiefly  as  a  husband  that 
she  mentally  regarded  him. 

To  a  certain  extent  Penelope  gave  to  the  Poet's  case 
the  same  practical  understanding  and  good  sense  with 
which  she  was  accustomed  to  meet  life  and  to  conquer  it. 
She  knew  him,  for  instance,  to  be  a  strange  mixture  of 
the  self-seeker  and  the  artist,  and  it  was  only  in  the  pro- 


56  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

portions  of  these  elements  within  him,  and  their  influence 
on  each  other,  that  she  sometimes  went  astray.  Because 
his  poetical  aspirations  were  as  unintelligible  to  her, 
for  the  most  part,  as  his  written  poetry  always  must  be, 
she  exaggerated  both  its  importance  and  its  extent 
unduly.  And  also  because  his  worldly  ambition 
touched  a  responsive  chord  in  her  own  nature,  she 
made  very  little  of  that,  as  a  thing  likely  to  be  useful 
to  herself,  but  beneath  her  notice  in  him.  Thus  she 
had  been  able  to  meet,  with  only  some  trifling,  unex- 
pressed annoyance,  the  fact  of  his  having  omitted  to 
make  sure  of  her  while  he  was  still  almost  the  only 
man  she  knew;  but  not  at  all  because  she  did  not 
appreciate  his  reasons. 

"  He  wants  to  see  first  how  I  shall  show  up  amongst 
his  friends,  and  I  can't  exactly  blame  him,"  she  told 
herself.  "  I  should  feel  like  that,  too."  It  was  only  in 
its  jar  against  her  imaginary  idea  of  what  a  poet  should 
be,  that  such  an  ordinary,  man-like  caution  vexed  her — 
that,  and  because  it  was  imperative  for  the  sake  of 
keeping  her  hold  on  happiness,  she  should  also  stifle 
her  own  love  in  her  desire  to  shine. 

She  did  desire  to  shine  very  much,  nor  was  she 
beset  with  any  keen  apprehension  concerning  the 
matter.  But  being  a  woman  first  of  all,  and  clever  as 
it  were  by  accident,  the  coming  triumph  of  her  clever- 
ness was  dimmed,  in  spite  of  her  best  efforts  to  the 
contrary,  by  the  Poet's  failure  to  make  love  to  her  at 
her  own  appointed  time,  and  remained  but  an  in- 
sufficient substitute  for  love.  And  Penelope  was  by 
nature  as  averse  to  the  second-best,  as  she  was 
particularly  gifted  in  hiding  her  aversion. 


AN   INSUFFICIENT  SUBSTITUTE         57 

"  He  is  so  cloud-ridden,"  she  told  herself,  excusingly, 
as  Blythedown  House  came  at  last  in  sight.  "  I  think 
I  must  give  him  one  more  chance.  For  I  should  like 
to  be  loved  for  myself  alone — it  would  seem  so  much 
more  fitting  in  a  poet."  And  that  she  concluded  was 
just  the  most  trying  part  of  being  in  love  with  a  poet ; 
the  imperative  need,  for  his  own  sake,  of  expecting 
more  of  him  than  of  other  men.  And  especially  where 
the  poet's  chosen  subject  of  love  was  concerned. 

Then  once  again  the  budding  daffodils  in  their 
sheltered  corner  caught  her  attention. 

"  Dear  me,"  she  thought,  "  a  dark  green  coat  and 
skirt,  with  a  touch  of  that  light  green — in  the  hat  I 
think — would  be  rather  special.  I  must  keep  it  in 
mind.  How  I  wish  I  could  preserve  a  leaf  as  a 
pattern,"  she  laughed ;  but  with  a  swift  clouding  of 
her  bright  face  to  follow  her  laughter. 

Now  why,  she  complained,  could  she  never  see 
beauty  in  anything,  except  to  turn  it  to  the  most 
mundane  uses  ?  To  smear  it  with  the  frivolous  and 
commonplace.  What  right  had  she  to  ever  hope  for 
an  acknowledged  place  at  a  poet's  side,  the  while  he 
trod  the  road  to  fame  ?  For  what  chance  would  a  poet 
possess  of  ever  reaching  his  goal,  hampered  with  so 
unsuitable  a  companion  ?  Her  decision  on  this  point 
made  her  quite  low-spirited,  for  her,  all  the  evening. 

Nevertheless  she  wrote  to  the  Poet,  as  she  had 
promised  herself  she  would,  before  bed-time,  asking  him 
to  pay  her  one  more  visit  previous  to  her  leaving 
Blythedown  for  Eaton  Square. 

"  And  of  course,"  she  added,  "  you  must  write  that 
poem !  "What  a  delightful  idea,  and  what  a  joke  it  will 


58  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

make  of  it  all.  Oh !  you  really,  really  must.  And — 
yes — and  I  will  promise  to  make  an  exception  of  it — I 
will  promise  you  to  read  it.  There !  That  I  know 
will  tempt  you ! " 

For  it  was  a  fact  that  although  the  Poet  occasionally 
forced  her  to  listen  to  his  recitation  of  stray  verses, 
Penelope  had  never  herself  read  any  of  his  poems. 
She  always  assured  him  that  she  liked  him  too  much, 
as  a  man,  to  run  the  risk. 


CHAPTEE  IX 

"AND  SHE  WAS  A  THISTLE-SIFTER" 

EVER  obedient,  as  he  expressed  himself,  to  Penelope's 
slightest  wish,  the  Poet  came  again  to  Blythedown. 
But  the  visit  that  was  the  result  of  an  invitation  did 
not  appear  quite  the  success  which  his  last  impromptu 
day  in  the  country  had  certainly  proved  ;  for  an  air  of 
festivity  and  joyousness  was  found  wanting,  in  spirit,  if 
not  in  semblance.  The  Poet  put  it  down  to  some 
possible  decrease  in  brilliance  on  the  part  of  Penelope, 
and  Penelope  to  preoccupation  in  the  Poet. 

"  He's  really  annoyed  and  irritated  about  that  vase, 
though  of  course  he  doesn't  like  to  say  so,  except  as  a 
sort  of  joke,"  she  commented.  "I  am  beginning  to 
wish  I'd  never  thought  of  selling  the  silly  thing." 

"  I  wonder  if  she  is  as  exceptional  as  I  have  always 
thought  her,"  mused  the  Poet. 

This  time  it  was  Penelope  who  insisted  on  revisiting 
the  wood.  She  was  in  an  unusually  indulgent  mood, 
for  she  walked  at  something  less  than  half  her  usual 
pace,  and  more  than  once  she  almost  came  to  a  stand- 
still, when  experience  told  her  that  the  Prospect  and 
the  Poet  should  be  in  harmony.  But  to-day,  in  ful- 
filment of  that  curious  rule  of  contraries,  which  has  so 

69 


60  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

much  to  answer  for,  the  Poet's  thoughts  seemed  more 
concerned  with  both  past  and  future  than  with  the 
picturesqueness  of  the  present,  generally  so  dear  to  him. 
The  recent  past,  in  which  he  had  been  busy  over  the 
writing  of  a  drama  in  verse,  and  the  future  of  its 
presentation  to  a  London  public. 

A  certain  Lady  Marian  Markham's  name  gave 
piquancy  to  the  Poet's  discourse.  All  she  had  done  for 
his  drama,  and  all  she  was  about  to  do  for  it,  he 
related  at  length,  while  he  let  choice  subjects  escape 
him  "by  the  dozen,"  as  Penelope  put  it  in  her 
thoughts. 

It  could  only  mean  one  thing,  she  decided,  with  rash 
haste.  He  must  be  in  love,  or  at  any  rate  striving  to 
consider  himself  in  love  with  this — well,  interfering 
female.  Although  she  seemed  to  remember  something 
of  the  name,  she  supposed  that  it  was  only  through 
former  conversations  with  the  Poet.  If  she  had 
connected  it  with  the  Duchess,  recognised  it,  in  fact,  as 
belonging  to  that  personage's  sister,  she  might  at  the 
very  least  have  made  her  comments  to  the  Poet  in  a 
warmer  tone.  But  when  she  had  been  introduced  as 
"  Poor  Eeiner's  daughter  "  to  Lady  Marian  Markham, 
she  had  been  in  ignorance  of  the  connection,  and  had 
never  since  thought  much  about  the  episode.  And 
although  all  London  might  be  aware  of  that  lady's  taste 
and  widespreading  influence  in  artistic  and  literary 
matters,  with  a  margin  for  the  higher  dramatic  interests, 
this  was  a  thing  not  at  present  within  Penelope's  know- 
ledge, which  was  of  a  wonderfully  varied  nature, 
considering  her  opportunities,  but  yet  not  quite 
unlimited. 


"AND   SHE  WAS  A  THISTLE-SIFTEE "    61 

Her  mental  picture  of  Lady  Marian  was  therefore  as 
lively  a  piece  of  imagination  as  anything  the  Poet 
might  have  managed  for  such  an  occasion,  and  being 
confronted  with  its  disturbing  presence  for  the  best 
part  of  two  miles,  it  is  little  to  be  wondered  at  that  she 
sank  at  last  on  the  fallen  tree  trunk  in  the  wood, 
moved  more  by  the  sudden  weariness  which  springs 
from  aggravation,  than  from  any  set  design.  Yet  she 
had  all  along  intended  to  sit  there,  while  the  Poet 
talked  to  her — but  differently.  The  thought  of  how 
differently,  caused  her  to  allow  him  to  plunge  unchecked 
into  parable,  an  almost  unheard-of  lapse  of  discipline 
on  her  part.  And  the  added  thought  of  the  uselessness 
of  further  exerting  her  influence  with  him,  was  the 
reason  of  her  hearing  him,  more  or  less  patiently,  to  the 
end. 

Meanwhile,  she  occupied  herself  in  trying  hard,  but 
with  moderate  success,  not  to  look  at  him.  Her  new 
objection  to  meeting  his  full  glance  springing  from  the 
fact  that  she  now  considered  her  own  love  to  be 
shamed  by  his  indifference. 

" '  She  was  a  thistle-sifter •,' "  quoted  the  Poet,  " '  and 
she  sifted  one  sieve  of  unsifted  thistles,  and  one  sieve  of 
sifted  thistles.  And  she  was  a  thistle-sifter.'  Do  you 
desire  me  to  render  unto  you  the  interpretation 
thereof  ? " 

"You  can't  even  say  it  plainly  yet,"  objected 
Penelope. 

But  the  Poet,  as  so  often  happened,  disregarded  her 
objection,  while  he  proceeded  to  take  the  permission 
she  had  omitted  to  grant  him. 

" '  &he  was  a  thistle  sifter '     She  had  lived  all  her 


62  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

days  in  the  land  of  Things  at  their  Brightest,  and  the 
creed  of  her  fathers  before  her  was  the  worship  of 
Things  as  they  Should  be  Done.  From  her  earliest 
years  the  Light  that  is  of  Man's  Invention  had 
appeared  to  her  as  much  to  be  regarded  as  the  Light 
which  is  spread  upon  the  Hills,  because,  in  both  cases, 
with  the  Eyes  of  an  Educated  Purpose,  she  looked  from 
the  Shapes  which  are  Perishable  to  the  First  Cause, 
and  Ultimate  Destination,  which  are  the  same  in 
each." 

The  Poet's  voice  was  generally  considered  a  very 
pleasing  one.  It  was  to  this  fact,  striking  her  anew, 
and  not  at  all  to  the  tenor  of  his  words,  that  Penelope 
paid  tribute,  when  she  said,  very  unexpectedly  (to  him), 
"  Say  some  more,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  And  there  came  a  time  when  capricious  Fate  laid 
at  her  feet  a  heap  of  unsifted  Thistles,  ripe  and  ready 
to  be  sifted.  And  on  the  top  of  the  heap  lay  a  bundle 
of  Old  Traditions,  and  these  she  lifted  up  and  flung  into 
the  darkness  behind  her,  first  of  all.  For  they  were 
rotten  to  the  core,  and  the  voracious  caterpillar,  which 
is  the  Progress  of  the  Generations,  had  already  half 
eaten  them  away.  And  beneath,  mingled  with  much 
that  was  to  be  commended,  lay  the  seeds  of  Ineffective- 
ness and  all  her  tribe :  Youthful  Dreams,  Hot 
Intolerance,  Impatience  of  Criticism,  Scorn  of  Detail, 
Irrepressible  Desires,  Unbridled  Imagination,  and  many 
more  that  are  too  numerous  to  mention.  And  at  the 
bottom  of  the  heap,  so  that  it  fell  through  her  sieve  last 
of  all,  was  Thirst  for  the  "River  of  Eomance,  which  may 
not  be  quenched.  But  she  made  a  knotted  cord  out  of 
the  String  of  Unnecessary  Words,  which  lay  thick  on 


"AND  SHE  WAS  A  THISTLE-SIFTER"    63 

every  side,  and  she  lashed  it  into  the  Background  of 
Reasonable  Proportions  with  that." 

"  Meddling — cat ! "  put  in  Penelope,  feelingly. 

"  Thank  you ! "  said  the  Poet.  He  gave  her  a  swift 
smile,  which  more  than  repaid  her  for  her  partisanship, 
until  he  somewhat  marred  its  effect  by  continuing : 

"But  she  had  a  love  of  the  work  for  its  own 
sake " 

"  Are  you  certain  sure  of  that  ? "  Penelope  interposed 
again,  but  this  time  the  Poet  did  not  appear  to  heed 
her. 

"Which  is,  after  all,  the  only  weapon  which  can 
effectively  clear  the  Brambles  of  Difficulty  and  the 
Weeds  of  111  Luck  from  the  High  Road  to  Popularity. 
So,  when  another  might  have  thought  her  task 
completed,  she  took  a  fresh  sieve  through  which 
to  pass  the  once-sifted  thistles.  And  the  heap  which 
remained  when  that  was  done  was  very  small  and 
finely  sifted  indeed.  For  the  hairs  of  which  this  sieve 
was  made  were  the  Fine-drawn  Lines  of  Tempered 
Ridicule,  and  the  sides  were  of  Recognised  Public 
Favour  of  Long  Standing,  while  the  band  which 
strengthened  it  from  side  to  side  was  composed  of  the 
Assured  Chances  of  Pecuniary  Success.  And  nothing 
which  bore  the  faintest  trace  of  Dulness,  which  is  not 
to  be  Tolerated,  or  even  of  Cleverness  unallied  to 
Immediate  Interest,  passed  this  test." 

"And  is  she  a  judge  of  what  will  be  interesting 
to  everybody ! "  asked  Penelope,  scornfully ;  but  she 
received  no  very  direct  answer. 

"  '  And  she  is  a  thistle-sifter '  and  her  work  goes 

on.  Until  the  season  for  thistles  is  over  she  will  not  give 


64 

up.  Idle  Thoughts  and  Idle  "Weeds  grow  apace,  and  the 
soil  whereon  they  flourish  may  even  think  them 
beautiful,  while  to  all  the  rest  of  the  world  they  are 
no  more  than  eyesores,  crying  aloud  for  annihilation, 
before  the  whole  garden  is  destroyed.  And,  what  is 
more,"  said  the  Poet,  suddenly  abandoning  his  grand 
and  impersonal  style — which,  indeed,  had  been  slipping 
from  him  of  its  own  accord  for  some  time — "  goodness 
knows,  I  shall  have  much  to  be  thankful  to  her  for,  if 
my  poem  is  the  success  it  almost  seems  it  must  be. 
Don't  you  think  so  ? " 

It  was  Penelope's  turn  not  to  answer,  and  she  took 
advantage  of  the  fact. 

The  Poet  looked  at  her  from  under  his  dark  brows. 
"But  I  shan't  enjoy  my  triumph  very  much — if  it 
come — if  you  do  not  wish  me  Good  Luck,"  said  he. 

"  Do  you  long  for  success  very,  very  much  ? " 
questioned  Penelope  curiously. 

"  Why,  of  course." 

"  Then,  of  course,  I  wish  it  you,"  said  she. 

The  day  was  warm  and  pleasant.  The  place  where 
they  sat  had  associations,  as  well  as  present  beauty,  to 
allure  the  senses.  Even  the  Poet  was  quite  young. 
He  rose  rather  suddenly  to  his  feet,  seeming  to  shake 
himself  free  of  something  as  he  did  so. 

"  Anyhow,"  said  he,  "  whether  I  am  an  unparalleled 
success  or  only  a  drear,  dead  failure,  there  will  be 
plenty  of  things  left  that  will  remain  unchanged. 
These  trees,  this  fairy  wonder  of  a  wood " — he  looked 
down  at  Penelope  still  seated — "and  you,  my  little 
country  girl,"  he  ended. 

"  Why  don't  you  say  '  country  bumpkin '  at  once  ? " 


"AND  SHE  WAS  A  THISTLE-SIFTER"    65 

said  Penelope,  but  with  that  perfect  freedom  from 
offence  in  her  tones  which  formed  her  most  dangerous 
weapon. 

"Because,"  declared  the  Poet,  "it  would  not  be  tame, 
and  you  know  it." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  do ! "  assented  Penelope,  smilingly. 

On  their  way  home  the  Poet  definitely  parted  with 
that  transitory  mood,  which  may  have  had  its  source  in 
memory  or  in  anticipation,  and  which  Penelope  felt, 
without  being  able  to  solve. 

"  This  is  a  perfect  afternoon,"  he  asserted.  Then  he 
took  a  side  glance  at  Penelope.  "  Though  I  was  afraid 
I  was  half  spoiling  it  at  one  time  with  the  Legend  of 
the  Thistles." 

He  spoke  in  all  the  arrogance  of  manhood.  Penelope, 
however,  was  hampered  with  a  keener  sense  of  the 
ridiculous,  and  she  was  laughing.  Nor  was  she  easily 
persuaded  to  explain  what  at. 

Her  eyes,  when  she  laughed,  had  a  trick  of  half 
disappearing,  yet  so  their  merriment  was  immensely 
intensified.  They  were  turned  now  on  the  Poet — long 
slits  of  reflected  sunlight,  as  he  had  once  described 
them.  She  walked  at  his  side  with  an  easy  freedom 
of  movement,  looking,  as  she  did  at  her  best,  radiantly 
alive. 

"  She  is  better  than  I  have  thought  her,"  decided  the 
Poet,  with  a  touch  of  self-pity. 

"  I  was  thinking,"  Penelope  confessed  at  last,  "  that, 
after  all,  thistles  are  generally  accepted  as  donkey's 
food." 

The  Poet  joined  the  laugh.  But  it  ended  on  his  part 
a  little  ruefully. 

X 


65  THE   POET  AND    PENELOPE 

"And  I  cannot  be  at  all  sure,"  he  said,  "that  my 
poem  won't  be  accepted  by  some  people  in  the  same 
light.  You,  for  one." 

"  But  then,"  said  Penelope  provokingly,  "  I  love 
donkeys,  you  know.  And  especially  seeing  them 
fed." 


CHAPTEE  X 

A  QUESTION  OP  ADVERTISEMENT 

THE  very  day  following  this  visit  of  the  Poet's  to 
Blythedown,  as  it  afterwards  appeared  (although  the 
connection  of  events  is  of  very  limited  interest),  Lady 
Margery  spent  in  town  on  business,  chiefly  concerning 
her  dressmaker.  And  now  she  was  sitting  by  the  fire 
in  Miss  Eunice's  room,  giving  her  the  benefit  of  her 
day's  experiences.  It  was  always  characteristic  of  My 
Lady  to  expect  a  great  deal  of  interest,  on  the  part 
of  other  people,  in  all  that  interested  her,  and  to  do 
her  friends  and  acquaintances  justice,  she  seldom,  if 
ever,  found  them  fail  her. 

"  It  is  such  fun,  Eunice ! "  she  was  saying.  "  I  went 
down  Bond  Street,  and  passed  the  shop  where  I  bought 
the  vase.  It  is  still  there  in  the  window ;  you  know 
I  told  the  man  not  to  send  it  home  until  our  return. 
I  was  so  glad  I  was  walking,  as  I  was  able  to  have  a 
good  look  at  it." 

"  Walking  ? "  said  Miss  Eunice,  who  was  dividing 
her  attendance  between  her  stepmother  and  her  needle- 
work, but  quite  making  up  for  her  brevity  by  the 

07 


68  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

amount  of  surprise  and  reproof  she  introduced  into  the 
one  word. 

Eunice  was  at  all  times  industrious  by  choice  and 
unconsciously.  There  arise,  however,  intricacies  in 
even  a  simple  pattern,  and  no  one  could  have  called 
the  lace-work  which  grew  under  her  busy  fingers  by 
that  term.  It  was,  indeed,  like  everything  about  her, 
on  quite  a  grand  and  lofty  scale.  And  from  her 
eminence  she  did  not  need  more  words  to  show  that 
she  considered  her  stepmother  particularly  unfitted  to 
traverse  London  unattended  and  on  foot. 

"  Well,  aren't  the  horses  down  here  ? "  said  Lady 
Margery  reproachfully.  "And  I  hate  hired  things. 
I  always  fancy  the  horses  will  run  away,  or  the 
springs  break.  Besides,  I  did  have  a  hansom  most 
of  the  time,"  she  added  excusingly.  "  I  didn't  walk 
far." 

She  glanced  with  an  amused  smile  at  the  smooth 
head  bent  over  the  rebellious  embroidery. 

"  Mr  Laister  was  with  me,"  she  went  on.  "  I  met 
him  just  before." 

Miss  Eunice  looked  up,  her  needle  raised  in  the  air. 
Not  only  was  the  difficulty  overcome,  but  the  frown 
had  gone,  and  she  was  smiling  too.  Like  Penelope, 
what  Miss  Eunice  appraised  most  highly  were  those 
things  for  which  she  herself  had  least  aptitude,  and  in 
the  way  of  gaining  her  favour  the  Poet's  poems  had 
always  stood  him  in  good  stead;  wherein  her  case 
differed  from  Penelope's. 

"Yes,"  said  Lady  Margery,  answering  the  smile. 
"  Oh !  it  is  fun,  really !  I  pointed  it  out  to  Mr  Laister, 
of  course,  but  he  told  me  he  had  already  made  friends 


A  QUESTION  OF  ADVERTISEMENT      69 

with  it.  He's  written  that  poem,  I  do  believe;  he 
said  something  about  it.  I  wish  rather  he  could  have 
seen  the  vase,  though." 

"I  thought  you  said "  began  Miss  Eunice. 

Even  long  experience  had  failed  always  to  make  clear 
to  her  the  intricacies  of  speech  in  which  Lady  Margery 
generally  indulged. 

"  Yes,  I  did ;  but  I  meant  the  vase — the  bronze,  you 
know.  It  is  there,  but  all  wrapped  up  in  crinkled 
paper,  ready  to  send  home,  I  suppose.  Such  sweet, 
pink  paper!  Most  artistic!  as  a  friend  of  yours 
would  say." 

Miss  Eunice  passed  over  the  quotation  without 
comment,  but  made  on  her  own  part  a  remark  as 
characteristic  perhaps  of  the  daughter  of  a  millionaire. 

"  What  a  tremendous  quantity  it  must  take  to  cover 
up  a  great  thing  like  that,"  said  she. 

"  Why  yes,"  assented  My  Lady.  "  It  does  look  huge, 
too.  It  fills  up  all  the  window,  but,"  with  a  little 
laugh,  "  my  shopkeeper  is  not  the  man  to  grudge  an 
outlay  of  that  sort.  In  fact,  Mr  Laister  told  me  that 
when  he  passed  a  few  days  ago,  it  was  all  shrouded 
in  green.  He  said  he  remembered  it  particularly, 
because "  she  hesitated. 

"  Because  of  what  ? " 

"Not  anything  in  special  reference  to  that  colour 
and  himself,"  went  on  My  Lady  mischievously,  "  well — 
because  when  I — we  told  him  about  the  vase  first,  one 
of  us  was  wearing  a  green  dress.  You  know  the 
ridiculous  things  he  says,  sometimes  ?  " 

"I  haven't  a  green  dress,"  said  Eunice,  and  there 
was  just  a  touch  of  regret  in  her  tones.  The  Poet  was 


70  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

wont  to  make  good  such  speeches  by  the  expression  in 
those  mournful  eyes  of  his — and  it  is  to  be  presumed 
that  even  Miss  Eunice  had  her  unguarded  moments. 

"  Then,"  said  My  Lady,  with  a  very  well-expressed 
show  of  innocence,  "  it  must  have  been  mine  he  was 
thinking  of." 

"  Yes ;  but  it  is  ridiculous,  as  you  say." 

"  But  I  didn't  mean  to  say  anything  about  it,"  said 
My  Lady  hurriedly.  Then  she  proceeded  with  even 
greater  haste.  "So  is  this  changing  business  of  the 
shopkeeper's,  if  you  come  to  think  of  it.  No  doubt  he 
got  the  idea  from  Fuller's  window,  and  of  course  it  is 
often  done  now.  I  daresay  it  all  adds  to  the  effect, 
and  serves  to  attract  attention." 

"  I  don't  see  what  he  wants  to  do  that  for."  Eunice's 
voice  was  suddenly  severe  again. 

"  Don't  you  ? "  questioned  My  Lady,  "  well,  I  think  I 
do." 

"  He  has  sold  the  vase,  so  he  cannot  well " 

"Sell  it  again?  No — hardly!"  Her  remembrance 
of  its  purchase,  and  her  own  part  in  it,  never  failed  to 
bring  the  ready  smiles  into  My  Lady's  eyes.  "That 
would  be  a  little  too  much  !  I  am  not  at  all  afraid  of 
being  outbidden.  And  it  is  marked  sold." 

"  So  it  was,  practically,  before,"  said  the  literal  Miss 
Eunice. 

"Oh,  that  was  very  different,"  Lady  Margery  said 
with  airy  confidence.  "  The  card — it  is  hung  round  it 
— is  the  great  joke.  It  is  like  the  shopkeeper's  cheek ! " 
she  ended,  but  with  the  indulgent  smile  she  always 
vouchsafed  to  that  worthy. 

"  What  is  on  it,  then  ? "    Miss  Eunice  was  folding  up 


A  QUESTION  OF  ADVEETISEMENT      71 

her  work.  It  was  time,  she  reminded  Lady  Margery, 
to  dress  for  dinner. 

"  Why,  everything,"  said  My  Lady,  rising  reluctantly. 
I  can  just  fancy  the  other  person  reading  it !  I 
should  love  to  know  who  it  is ;  hut,  anyhow,  the 
thought  of  how  she  must  be  feeling  about  it,  makes 
it  quite  worth  while.  The  letters  are  huge,  to  match 
the  vase.  '  This  magnificent  vase — has  been  purchased 
—by  a  Lady  of  Title.'  It  is  a  joke  ! " 

To  her  it  was.  So  she  was  surprised,  and  not 
altogether  well-pleased,  that  her  stepdaughter  should 
view  it  in  another  light. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,"  questioned  Miss  Eunice,  "  he 
has  had  the  extreme  rudeness  to  put  that  ? " 

She  said  other  things  as  derogatory  to  the  shop- 
keeper, and  with  equal  warmth,  keeping  her  plainly- 
expressed  opinion  through  some  contention.  As,  to 
tell  the  truth,  did  Lady  Margery. 

"  You  see,"  said  My  Lady  in  explanation  before  she 
hurried  off  to  dress,  "  it  may  strike  me  differently  very 
likely  about  the  Lady  of  Title  (the  use  in  such  a 
connection  of  these  words,  it  seemed,  had  especially 
raised  Miss  Eunice's  ire),  just  because  it  means 
me." 

A  remark  which,  if  it  did  not  convince  Miss  Eunice, 
had  perhaps  this  excuse,  that  it  was  never  intended 
to. 

But,  as  was  her  nature,  Eunice  took  this  last 
development  with  very  much  more  seriousness  than 
did  Lady  Margery.  She  could  not  see,  as  she  said  to 
the  Poet,  when  he  next  ran  down  to  Brighton,  and 
came  to  visit  them,  what  business  the  shopkeeper  had 


72  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

to  take  such  a  liberty.  Or  what  could  have  made  him 
think  of  such  a  thing. 

The  addition  her  tones  implied,  without  her  actually 
saying  it,  was  the  word  "  Dare  "  in  capitals,  before  the 
"Think."  "I  almost  wonder,"  she  ended,  "he  didn't 
go  into  full  particulars ! " 

The  Poet  expressed  his  inability  to  account  for  such 
a  flight  into  the  unsafe  regions  of  pure  impertinence, 
or,  at  the  very  least,  questionable  taste,  on  the  part  of 
the  shopkeeper.  But  he  poured  what  balm  he  could 
on  Miss  Eunice's  wounded  spirit. 

A  few  drops  at  a  time  though.  For  a  state  of 
annoyance  did  not  at  all  detract  from  her  charm ;  the 
Poet  may  even  have  considered  that  it  added  to  it 

"  Well,  it  won't  be  for  long  now,"  said  he. 

"  I  should  hope  not ! "  The  toss  of  her  head  with 
which  she  accompanied  her  words,  was  in  its  way  very 
fine. 

"I  should  hope  not  too,  or  the  other  shopkeepers 
will  certainly  be  getting  jealous.  There  is  quite  a 
crowd  round  that  window,  I  believe,  all  day  long." 

"How  dreadful!" 

"Now,"  said  the  Poet,  "I  don't  think  it's  quite  all 
that.  Shows,  perhaps,  how  interested  English  people 
are  in  ingenious  contriving,  or  even  the  existence 
among  them  of  a  reprehensible  spirit  of  curiosity,  but 
no  more,  surely  ? " 

"  In  a  vulgar  advertisement ! "  Miss  Eunice's  scorn 
seemed  to  include  more  at  any  rate,  than  just  the 
shopkeeper. 

At  which  point  the  Poet  saw  fit  to  explain  himself ; 
which  he  did  with  thoroughness. 


A  QUESTION  OF  ADVERTISEMENT      73 

"  I  didn't  mean  the  card  only,"  he  began  apologetically, 
"  but  a  curious  contrivance,  now  being  erected,  to  get 
the  vase  out  of  the  window.  A  most  elaborate 
miniature  scaffolding  was  partially  in  place  when  I 
was  there  last,  and  a  slide  on  which  to  convey  it 
without  injury  to  the  floor  of  the  shop,  at  least  that  is 
what  I  gathered  from  what  I  saw.  The  workmen  were 
taking  their  time  over  it,  you  may  be  sure,  and  con- 
sidering the  crowd  it  draws  outside — it  seems  incessant 
— you  can't  wonder  at  it.  For,  as  an  advertisement,  it 
has  much  to  recommend  it  in  the  way  of  careful 
cleverness.  It  can  hardly  last,  I'm  afraid,  though, 
till  your  return.  I  wish  it  could ;  I  should  like  you 
to  see  it." 

Miss  Eunice,  who  had  been  listening  with  grave 
attention,  gave  in  to  the  extent  of  putting  a  similar 
wish  into  words. 

"  It  is  not,"  concluded  the  Poet,  making  no  bones  on 
his  part  either  of  taking  the  advantage  that  had  come 
to  him,  "  at  all  my  chief  or  only  reason  for  wishing  for 
your  return.  It  differs  from  the  Great  Bronze  Vase 
itself,  in  being  one  of  many." 

He  further  supplemented  his  words,  as  was  his 
custom,  with  a  look,  and  the  conversation  and  Eunice's 
colour  changed  together. 


CHAPTER  XI 

EECOEDS  A  PROMISE 

"WiLL  you  miss  me  horribly,  dreadfully,  do  you 
think,  darling  ? "  questioned  Penelope.  She  was  seated 
on  the  fender  rail,  between  Auntie's  chair  and  the 
fireplace  against  which  it  was  invariably  set  in  winter 
and  summer  alike.  A  bright  fire  was  blazing,  for 
although  the  days  were  warmed  with  sunshine  now, 
the  evenings  were  still  cold,  and,  even  apart  from 
circumstances  of  weather,  inaction  made  Auntie 
habitually  chilly. 

Auntie's  white  fingers  moved  with  leisurely  per- 
sistence. Most  of  her  time  was  employed  in  knitting 
"woolleys,"  destined  to  keep  the  cold  from  the  poor 
of  Blythedown.  But  the  art  of  knitting  had  been 
acquired  after  her  loss  of  sight,  not  before,  and  then 
but  indifferently,  and  it  was  very  seldom  that 
Penelope's  tender  heart  consented  to  the  actual 
presentation  of  the  shapeless  garments.  When  quite 
a  child  she  had  taken  to  hiding  the  greater  part  of 
the  products  of  Auntie's  ceaseless  industry,  and  even, 
when  occasion  arose,  to  inventing  the  messages  of 

74 


RECORDS  A  PEOMISE  75 

gratitude  necessary  to  gracefully  cover  the  deception. 
So  were  dropped  stitches  and  inaccuracies  of  many 
kinds  marred  and  made  useless,  no  eyes  but  hers 
were  the  wiser.  The  chance  of  laughing  at  a  blind 
woman's  ineffectiveness  was  never  given  to  the  outer 
world. 

"  Will  you  miss  me  most  horribly  ? "  Penelope  asked 
again.  For  Auntie  paused  before  answering,  since 
to  do  so  presented  something  of  a  difficulty  to  her 
gentle  inind.  She  had  no  wish,  far  from  it,  to  appear 
cold,  yet  to  own  how  much  Penelope  would  take 
with  her  might  tend  to  dim  Penelope's  pleasure  in 
going. 

"I  am  bound  to  miss  you,  dear  child,"  she  began 
at  last,  but  only  after  all  to  be  interrupted. 

"  But  you're  afraid  to  say  so,  for  fear  your  Penelope 
should  refuse  to  go  at  the  eleventh  hour;  isn't  that 
it?" 

Half  reluctantly  Auntie  admitted  therein  a  likeness 
to  her  thoughts.  "But  it  will  not  be  for  very  long,' 
she  added.  "And  you  will  have  so  much  to  tell  me 
when  you  come  back." 

"  Shan't  I  ?     Ever  so  much  !  " 

"  It  is  so  kind  of  the  Duchess  to  ask  you.  Your  dear 
father  would  have  been  so  pleased." 

"  Would  he  ? "  queried  Penelope,  "  was  he  so  fond  of 
duchesses — and  things  of  that  sort  ? " 

"  My  dear  child !  What  a  strange  way  of  speaking ! " 
commented  Auntie  evasively. 

"  But  was  he  ?  Fond  of  society  I  mean  ? "  Penelope 
was  looking  at  the  fire  at  the  moment,  not  at  Auntie's 
tell-tale  face,  or  she  would  hardly  have  persisted. 


76  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

"Yes,  dear,  he  went  out  a  great  deal.  He  was  an 
exceedingly  attractive  man.  Before  he  went  abroad 
and  married  your  mother  there,  he  was  very  much 
sought  after  indeed."  Although  plainly  reluctant  still 
to  follow  up  the  subject,  pride  in  her  dead  brother  as 
much  as  Penelope's  curiosity,  moved  Auntie,  against 
her  will,  to  continue. 

"Well,  he  must  have  been  attractive  then,"  said 
Penelope.  "Because  ineligibles  aren't  usually 
welcomed  universally,  are  they  ?  " 

"  He — I  think  he  was  irresistible,"  said  Auntie  in  the 
flurried  manner  which  Penelope  had  learnt  to  associate 
with  conversations  of  which  her  father  formed  the  topic. 
"  And — and  you  are  very  like  him,  dear." 

"  Am  I  ?  Then  I  hope  I  shall  be  found  irresistible 
too,  don't  you  ? " 

"You  will  be.  I  don't  doubt  it;  with  your  looks 
alone " 

"  What  do  you  know  about  my  looks,  then  ? "  smiled 
Penelope.  "  How  do  you  know  that  their  good  qualities 
do  not  lie  in  your  fond  imagination  only  ?  Why,  I 
might  be  as  ugly  as  a  hobgoblin,  and  I  should  still 
be  beautiful  to  you,  you  prejudiced  darling " 

"I  know!"  said  Auntie,  smiling  in  her  turn  and 
speaking  archly.  "  Even  the  best  judge  of  such  matters 
that  we  know,  your  friend,  Mr  Laister,  assures  me  I  am 
not  quite  mistaken  there." 

"  Oh,  the  Poet ! "  said  Penelope. 

Auntie  paused  in  her  knitting  to  find  Penelope's 
hand  and  press  it,  but  only  as  a  token  in  assurance  of 
perpetual  love,  not  because  she  felt  in  her  blindness  the 
sudden  loss  of  merriment  in  Penelope's  eyes. 


EECOEDS  A  PEOMISE  77 

A  loss  occasioned  by  the  memory  that,  after  all,  the 
longed-for  visit  to  Town  had  degenerated  into  a  possible 
means  of  revenge  on  the  Poet — for  stealing  a  heart  he 
apparently  did  not  value. 

She  slid  on  to  her  knees,  clasping  Auntie's  frail  form 
round  the  waist  with  both  arms. 

"  The  Poet  is  prejudiced  too,  perhaps,"  she  said,  "  or 
was.  And  he  may  sing  a  different  song  when  I  come 
home  again." 

"  Why "  Auntie  began, 

"  It  is  no  good  asking  me  why ;  I  couldn't  explain. 
And  you  will  believe  me  before  him — say  you  will — 
when  I  come  home  again  ?  What  a  lot  there  will  be 
for  you  to  believe — for  me  to  tell !  Yet  I  have  a  good 
mind  not  to  go — not  to  go,  Auntie." 

Auntie  did  not  miss  the  tremor  in  the  clear  voice  she 
loved.  Only  she  failed  to  associate  its  presence  with 
the  introduction  of  the  Poet's  name  into  the  conversa- 
tion. She  could  not  know  how  during  the  last  few  days 
Penelope  had  perpetually  fluctuated  between  a  desire 
to  show  the  Poet  how  mistaken  he  had  been  in  putting 
another  before  her,  and  genuine  dread  of  being  brought 
face  to  face  with  that  other,  while  he  looked  on.  At 
the  moment  this  thought  had  the  mastery.  She  could 
not  go  to  London,  because  there  she  would  undoubtedly 
meet  this  lucky  Lady  Marian  Markham,  and  meeting 
her,  realize  once  and  for  always  the  end  of  her  own 
claim  on  the  affections  of  the  Hon.  Laurence  Albert 
Laister  in  his  capacity  of  man  of  the  world.  He  who 
should  be  always  just  a  poet :  set  apart  from  all  self- 
seeking. 

No,  Auntie   not  unnaturally  put   down  Penelope's 


78  THE  POET  AND   PENELOPE 

sudden  reluctance  to  leave  her  to  more  personal  causes. 
And  she  urged  again  her  pretty  plea,  that  by  going 
for  a  little  while  at  any  rate,  Penelope  would  clear  her 
conscience  from  the  reproach  of  keeping  her  dear  niece 
from  her  proper  place  in  the  world.  It  was  a  reason 
which  never  failed  to  bring  Penelope's  laughter,  and 
when  Penelope  laughed  she  generally  gave  way  at  the 
same  time.  Besides,  as  Auntie  further  reminded  her, 
it  was  far  too  late  for  the  making  of  new  plans 
without  entailing  great  rudeness.  And  rudeness 
being  an  unforgiveable  sin  in  Auntie's  eyes,  was  alone 
found  insurmountable. 

"  And  here  are  a  few  trifles  for  you  to  wear,  perhaps," 
Auntie  said,  mysteriously  producing  a  faded  jewel-case 
Penelope  never  remembered  having  seen  before. 
"Don't  open  it  now,  dear,  help  me  to  bed  first.' 
Through  a  faintly  triumphant  air,  suggestive  of  prize- 
giving,  she  seemed  quite  nervous  of  Penelope's  new 
mood  of  variableness,  and  seeing  that,  Penelope  made 
haste  to  hide  all  there  was  left  of  it. 

But  she  helped  Auntie  to  rest  with  additional  tender- 
ness, since  it  must  be  for  the  last  time  for  some  while. 
And  she  whispered  her  real  good-bye  when  she  kissed 
the  white  face  on  the  white  pillow. 

"When  I  come  back,  it  will  be  for  always,"  she 
promised. 

"  When  you  come  back  ! "  echoed  Auntie,  stung  out 
of  her  silence  by  Penelope's  embrace.  "  Dear  one,  you 

may  never  come  back  to  me " 

Don't  say  it !     Don't  say  it,  even ! " 
I  mean,"  said   Auntie,  self-excusingly,  "that  you 
will  find  some  one  to  love  and  to   be  loved  by — a 


RECOKDS  A  PEOMISE  79 

husband  who  will  want  to  keep  you,  dear — and  to  be 
always  first  with  you,  of  course." 

"  No  one  will  want  to  keep  me,"  Penelope  declared. 

"  And  if  any  one  did "  She  interrupted  herself  to 

cry  quickly— "  but  I  shall  come  back  to  you,  and  just 
exactly  as  I  go,  you  need  not  fear." 

Yet  Auntie  shook  her  head.  Long  after  she  was 
alone  she  continued  to  ask  herself  how  could  the 
child  possibly  know?  She  was  so  used  to  being 
cheered  by  Penelope,  so  accustomed  to  believe  in 
her,  but  for  once  she  was  confronted  with  the  un- 
wisdom of  yielding  to  a  second-hand  hopefulness,  that 
was  plainly  without  foundation.  Besides,  she  felt 
assured  that  behind  her  desire  for  Penelope's  heart- 
whole  return,  lurked  that  bugbear  of  her  simple  life — 
selfishness.  And  through  many  of  the  long  night 
hours  she  fought  with  it  for  the  mastery. 

When  Penelope  left  Auntie  it  was  to  return 
to  the  drawing-room  and  immediately  explore  the 
contents  of  the  faded  jewel-case.  Many  of  the 
trinkets  it  contained  were  too  recently  out-of-date  for 
present  wear,  but  all  were  valuable — some  so  valuable 
as  to  be  quite  unaffected  by  their  date.  The  best  of 
all  in  Penelope's  eyes  was  a  pearl  necklace. 

"  Real  beauties  !  Darlings !  And  when  ever  did 
Auntie  wear  them  ? "  she  wondered.  She  wondered 
over  many  things  by  the  dying  fire  before  she  gathered 
the  contents  of  the  jewel-case  up  to  return  to  its 
keeping.  "Yes,  I  will  come  back  as  I  go,"  she 
promised  again  as  the  result  of  all  her  thoughts,  and 
to  herself  this  time. 

And  from  herself  she  could  not  hide  the  reason  why 


80  THE  POET  AND   PENELOPE 

she  was  able  to  be  so  confident.  "  For  he  won't  want 
me,"  she  thought,  meaning  the  Poet.  "If  he  wanted 
me — well,  I  suppose  even  now  I  should  give  him  the 
best  of  me — to  keep." 


CHAPTEE  XII 

TO  THE  SATISFACTION  OF  THE  DUCHESS 

THE  Duchess  was  delighted.  If  inclined  at  times  to 
be  rather  scornful  of  the  universal  acceptance  of  her 
sister  Marian's  standard  of  good  taste,  or  even  rather 
jealous  of  it,  so  it  was  whispered — and  truly  the  one 
thing  often  indicates  the  other — in  the  matter  of 
Penelope's  presentableness  she  gave  her  full  and 
frequent  credit.  Took  all  her  world,  in  fact,  into 
her  confidence  concerning  the  affair,  as  was  her  almost 
invariable  custom. 

In  looks,  in  manners,  and  in  dress,  Penelope,  she 
declared,  could  not  be  bettered.  Then  would  follow 
an  introduction  to  Penelope,  while  the  Duchess  awaited 
subsequent  confirmation  of  her  verdict  with  triumph 
written  prematurely  on  her  face.  Sometimes  when 
the  Duchess,  as  an  ambitious  amateur  in  art,  strove 
to  force  a  triumph,  after  this  fashion,  it  failed  to 
come  off  quite  in  the  manner  she  had  anticipated, 
and  she  was  not  a  stranger  to  disappointment, 
although  she  never  gave  it  the  doubtful  benefit  of 
acknowledgment. 

But  in  Penelope,  as  Lord  Colbeck  described  it,  she 
IT  n 


82  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

had  a  "safe  draw."  And  this  delight,  to  which  she 
gave,  as  it  were,  the  hall-mark,  was  by  no  means 
restricted  to  the  Duchess. 

For  Penelope  had  all  the  elements  of  sure  success 
ready  to  hand.  To  begin  with,  she  did  not  know  fear ; 
had  never  once  felt  the  paralysing  touch  of  so  much  as 
a  passing  fit  of  shyness.  It  was  quite  natural  to  her 
to  be  just  her  self  wherever  she  found  herself,  and 
anything  more  charming  than  Penelope's  self  seemed 
incredible  to  most  people.  Moreover,  she  was  clever 
enough  to  generally  find  herself  just  wherever  she 
most  wished  to  be.  The  people  she  met  she  judged 
and  liked  for  their  qualities — most  often  for  their 
amusing  qualities — but  quite  irrespective  of  their  rank 
or  their  incomes.  Even  of  the  Duke  she  stood  in  no  sort 
of  awe,  and  the  Duke  was  generally  considered  rather 
unapproachable.  Chiefly  because  he  saw  no  reason 
why  he  should  talk  of  things  which  did  not  interest 
him,  and  was  interested  in  such  a  limited  number  of 
things.  But  it  was  noticeable  that  he  soon  added 
Penelope  to  his  modest  list  of  attractions,  and  took 
the  friendship  she  gave  him  in  return  as  a  special 
privilege.  Her  treatment  of  him  was  very  similar 
to  her  treatment  of  the  Poet :  a  mixture  of  indulgence 
and  ridicule,  in  which  the  first  was  made  to  appear 
well  worth  the  second. 

"Why  on  earth,  my  dear,  didn't  you  give  me  a 
daughter  like  that?"  was  what  the  Duke  had  the 
audacity  (the  word  is  the  Duchess's)  to  complain  in 
confidence  to  his  wife,  when  Penelope  had  only  been 
in  London  something  under  a  week.  And  as  the 
Duchess  had  openly  mourned  many  times  her  lack 


TO  THE  SATISFACTION  OF  THE  DUCHESS   83 

of  a  daughter,  to  meet  her  husband's  invariable  scorn, 
launched  vaguely  as  a  rub  against  the  foolishness  of 
women,  this  also  scored  in  the  Duchess'  mind  in 
favour  of  Penelope,  as  she  admitted.  "Though  how 
on  earth,  my  dear  Duke,"  she  mocked,  "you  could 
expect  to  be  the  father  of  such  a  good-looking 
daughter,  passes  me  entirely!" 

Then  she  waited,  and  nothing  came.  "  Dear !  dear ! " 
said  the  Duchess,  "Penelope's  father  would  not  have 
let  that  chance  of  a  compliment  slip,  even  if  he  had 
lived  to  be  your  age,  I'm  sure." 

"Yet  he  let  something  slip  in  his  youth  which  I 
seized  upon,  didn't  he?"  questioned  the  Duke.  And 
the  Duchess  did  not  answer  him,  except  by  the  almost 
youthful  blush  she  could  not  withhold  even  now  from 
that  old  allusion. 

Then  there  was  Lord  Colbeck,  a  very  important 
member  of  the  ducal  household — in  his  own  eyes 
perhaps  especially.  (Yet  even  so  inoffensively).  And 
for  once  that  friendly  soul  could  own  himself  well 
pleased  (and  did)  at  the  absence  from  England  of  his 
two  younger  brothers,  who  were  travelling  at  present 
with  a  tutor,  to  further  the  moulding  of  their  artistic 
sense — according  to  the  Duchess,  their  mother.  For 
thus  was  Lord  Colbeck  given  a  fair  field  without 
rivalry  in  his  own  home,  at  least. 

For  even  a  field  whose  blossoms  you  may  not  gather, 
is  sometimes  better  than  a  plain  high-road,  as  the  Poet 
put  it  when  Lord  Colbeck  explained  to  him  the  outline 
of  the  situation.  Telling  him,  as  he  told  every  one  in 
his  expansive  manner,  which  was  his  most  direct 
inheritance  from  his  mother,  that  Penelope  was 


84  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

"  ripping,"  "  the  grandest  fun,"  and  the  like.  What  he 
kept  in  reservation,  unwilling  but  obligatory,  was  the 
fact  that  he  had  already  come  to  considering  her  in  his 
thoughts  as  the  dearest  thing  God  ever  made ;  being 
also  persuaded  against  the  possibility  of  a  different 
opinion  in  any  one.  But  loyalty  to  Miss  Eunice,  and  a 
very  genuine  regard  for  her,  which  this  left  quite 
untouched,  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  do  justice  to 
himself  in  his  praises  of  Penelope.  Made  it,  which 
was  even  harder,  impossible  for  him  to  do  justice  to 
himself  (in  his  own  estimation)  in  his  behaviour 
towards  Penelope.  Yet  he  did  very  well  in  both 
respects,  and  she  seemed  satisfied,  which  went  a  long 
way  towards  lightening  his  load  of  aggravation.  For 
aggrieved  he  certainly  felt  himself  with  regard  to  the 
future,  if  not  the  immediate  present. 

And  the  Duke  shook  his  head ;  for  he  had  pre- 
dicted that  things  would  come  of  his  son  Colin's; 
unsettled  state  of  mind  (which  was  his  way  of 
alluding  to  the  engagement  to  Miss  Huddleston  Jones, 
which  indeed  had  taken  some  arranging),  and  the 
introduction  into  their  home  circle  of  Penelope — and 
even  before  he  knew  anything  at  all  of  her  merits. 
Further,  the  Duke  professed  to  see  so  much  that  was 
delightful  in  Penelope,  that  he  took  to  pitying  his 
son  Colin.  Judging  every  one,  as  was  his  habit,  by 
himself,  so  the  Duchess  said.  "And  Colin  can  take 
care  of  himself,  very  well,"  she  declared,  mentally 
adding,  "  with  his  dear  mother's  help." 

For  the  Duchess  took  no  part  in  the  head-shakings, 
and  it  seemed  that  Lord  Colbeck  might  admire 
Penelope  just  as  much  as  pleased  him,  so  far  as  she 


TO  THE  SATISFACTION  OF  THE  DUCHESS   85 

was  concerned.  Yet  the  engagement  which  held  him, 
and  never  fitting  him  very  easily  now  irked  him 
considerably,  had  been  quite  as  much  her  doing  as  his. 
So  Lord  Col  beck  took  as  much  advantage  of  his 
mother's  lenience  as  a  readily  adjusted  conscience 
would  allow  him  to,  while  not  troubling  greatly  about 
the  cause  from  which  it  sprang.  That,  indeed,  being 
far  to  seek  for  such  young  people  as  Lord  Colbeck  and 
Penelope. 

The  Duchess,  alone,  held  Penelope's  father  in  strong 
personal  remembrance,  and  had  known  him  as  a  man 
of  considerable  means.  Means,  which  it  had  been 
whispered  at  the  time,  she  would  have  been  very 
willing  to  share,  even  although  it  would  have  meant 
the  refusal  of  a  coronet.  And,  as  far  as  she  had 
opportunity  of  judging,  Penelope  had  every  sign  about 
her  of  having  inherited  largely  from  her  father  and  the 
Duchess'  old  admirer.  (Or  should  it  be  the  man 
the  Duchess  admired  ?  The  Duchess  alone  could 
decide.) 

Once  or  twice  she  adroitly  sounded  Penelope  on  the 
subject,  to  be  as  adroitly  met,  and  baffled.  Penelope 
had  the  sale  of  the  Great  Bronze  Vase,  if  not  on  her 
conscience,  at  least  in  her  constant  remembrance,  and 
she  wasn't  going,  as  she  told  the  Poet  when  she  moved 
him  to  laughter  with  her  description  of  the  Duchess' 
manoeuvres,  to  give  away  the  secret  of  her  pretty 
clothes.  "I  can't  be  branded  now  as  a  penniless 
adventurer,  can  I  ?  Besides,  whatever  would  she  say  if 
she  found  this  vase  really " 

"  Oh,  that  vase ! "  put  in  the  Poet,  and  then  Penelope 
ostentatiously  changed  the  subject  as  she  generally  did, 


86  THE  POET  AND   PENELOPE 

sooner  or  later,  when  the  vase  was  the  subject,  and  the 
Poet  the  person  she  was  speaking  to. 

But  Penelope's  reticence  did  not  really  trouble  the 
Duchess,  although  she  attached  so  much  more  im- 
portance to  it  than  ever  Penelope  dreamed.  She 
judged,  perforce,  from  what  she  saw,  but  she  saw 
nothing  that  tended  to  dispel  her  private  conviction, 
which  she  found  very  comforting. 

The  romantic,  if  not  wholly  original  idea  of  a  match 
between  her  son  and  her  old  admirer's  daughter,  took  a 
firmer  hold  of  her  with  every  passing  hour.  And  she 
did  not  doubt  that  a  day  would  come  when  there  would 
dawn  on  her  a  way  out  of  the  "  Huddleston- Jones 
entanglement."  (This  being  the  name  she  had  now 
arrived  at,  and  secretly  gloried  in).  She  did  not  hide 
from  herself  that  in  mere  money,  with  an  exchange  of 
brides  Lord  Colbeck  would  probably  be  something  of  a 
loser;  but  the  benefits  she  foresaw  outweighed  John 
Huddleston  Jones'  hoards,  or,  as  much  of  his  hoards  as 
his  daughter  could  reasonably  expect,  by  the  length — 
the  whole  length  in  fact,  of  Penelope ! 

"  One  of  ourselves  undoubtedly,  and  with  not  a  trace, 
even,  of  her  bringing  up ! "  applauded  the  Duchess  ;  her 
delight  entailing  wide  issues. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

CONCERNING  A  NAMELESS  HEROINE 

"  IT  is  a  matter  of  taste,  of  course,"  said  Lord  Colbeck, 
and  his  tone  was  distinctly  apologetic. 

"  It  is  a  matter  of  right  and  wrong,"  said  Miss  Eunice, 
with  a  pained  expression  and  an  altogether  superior  air, 
which  seemed  to  make  apology  worse  than  useless. 

Lord  Colbeck  was  not  a  woman,  and  obliged  by  an 
evil  fate  to  have  the  last  word,  whether  for  his  own 
good  or  his  own  undoing ;  thus  he  was  able  to  remain 
silent.  Yet,  even  so,  he  failed  to  please  Miss  Eunice, 
as  it  appeared. 

In  a  fit  of  recklessness,  he  had  been  relating  to  her 
an  experience  which  had  seemed  to  him  immensely 
funny,  up  to  the  time  he  saw  her  acceptance  of  it 
mirrored  in  her  exceedingly  candid  eyes.  It  had 
happened  like  this: — Miss  Eunice  had  been  unable, 
one  night  in  the  previous  week,  to  go  to  a  dance 
where  she  was  expected  —  he  would  not  have  gone 
himself,  Lord  Colbeck  put  in,  had  he  not  expected 
her. 

Well — this  was  the  occasion  chosen  by  a  lady  to 

87 


88  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

dance  several  times  with  him  in  succession.  He  was 
forced  to  it — actually  he ! 

Lady  Margery  was  in  the  room,  and  when  he  began 
she  glanced  at  him  rather  suspiciously. 

Was  it  possible  she  had  been  the  lady  of  Lord 
Colbeck's  story  ?  It  almost  seemed  like  it. 

She  came  a  little  nearer,  and  although  she  was  not 
being  addressed,  she  gave  an  unsolicited  opinion. 

"I  should  call  this  a  silly  tale,"  said  she,  but  so 
sweetly  as  to  rob  the  remark  of  all  offence. 

"It  is  a  true  one  though,"  said  Lord  Colbeck  with 
decision. 

"That  does  not  necessarily  make  it  desirable,"  said 
My  Lady. 

"  The  truth  must  out,  you  know,"  said  he.  "  It  seems 
to  be  a  way  it  has." 

"  I  call  it  an  unpleasant  way,"  said  My  Lady.  Then 
something  seemed  to  occur  to  her.  "That  is,  if  you 
mean  all  the  truth  ? " 

"  Just  enough  to  adorn  a  tale." 

"  Oh,  then  I  do  not  mind,"  said  Lady  Margery  with 
apparent  irrelevance  as  it  seemed  to  Miss  Eunice.  "  I 
did  not  want  to  see  the  moral  spoilt." 

"That's  not  where  you  would  come  in  at  all,"  said 
Lord  Colbeck.  "  The  moral  should  be  at  the  end  too, 
not  at  the  beginning,"  he  added,  but  Lady  Margery, 
overcome  at  last  by  the  humour  of  the  tale,  or  perhaps 
of  the  original  situation,  gave  way  to  her  usual  unre- 
strained laughter  at  this  point,  and  left  him  free  to 
amuse  Miss  Eunice. 

But  that  was  not  the  worst  of  it,  by  any  means. 
Under  whose  very  nose  did  she  think  this  lady 


CONCERNING  A  NAMELESS   HEEOINE    89 

elected  to  sit  out,  oh — several  more  (a  little  vaguely) 
dances  with  him?  And  it  could  not  be  denied 
that  she  was  aware  of  his  position  as  a  newly- 
engaged  man.  Well,  in  full  view  of  his  mother,  the 
Duchess. 

It  was  not  either  as  if  that  had  been  a  very  general 
or  comfortable  place  for  sitting  out  a  dance  in,  or  as  if 
the  Duchess  had  been  quite  alone. 

He  had  not  exhausted  himself  by  a  long  way.  He 
had  not  told  her  anything  at  all  of  the  lady's  conversa- 
tion, or  even  her  name.  But  perhaps  he  did  not  mean 
to,  and  Eunice  understood  that. 

At  any  rate,  she  now  arose  abruptly,  and  began  to 
expose  to  him  the  blackness  of  character  of  all  women 
who  flirt. 

She  spoke  at  some  length,  and  with  a  great  scorn,  and 
ended  with,  "I  can't  see  what  pleasure  they  find  in 
it ! "  forcing  him  into  the  attitude  ai  ologetic  and 
herself  to  the  utmost  pitch  of  superiority,  and  thence, 
though  it  would  seem  a  roundabout  way  to  a  mere 
onlooker,  to  a  quick  repentance. 

For  though  Lord  Colbeck  held  his  tongue,  he  forgot 
to  turn  his  back,  or  very  likely  he  would  have  con- 
sidered that  rude.  And  Miss  Eunice  was  one  of  those 
simple  women,  of  whom  there  are  still  a  few  left,  who 
are  miserable  at  once  when  they  have  raised  ever  so 
small  a  cloud  between  themselves  and  the  one  they 
love. 

And  this,  in  spite  of  an  unconquerable  propensity  for 
cloud-raising. 

"  0  Colin ! "  she  said  in  answer  to  his  look.  "  I  did 
not  mean  I  thought  you  were  in  the  wrong !  I  know 


90  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

that  it  was  quite  her  fault,  and  it  was  so  honest  of  you 
to  tell  ma" 

As  they  were  alone  now  she  accompanied  her  speech 
with  a  glance  he  could  not  help  feeling  he  had  not 
deserved.  She  really  was  very  nice-looking,  and 
altogether  it  was  a  relief  to  him  that  Lady  Margery 
had  seen  fit  to  leave  them,  though,  as  things  had 
turned  out,  it  was  with  some  ruefulness  that  he 
reflected  how,  in  all  probability,  she  had  not  yet 
left  off  laughing. 

It  was  in  a  genuine  endeavour  to  live  up  (Yes, 
certainly,  up,  not  down)  to  the  level  of  the  "simple 
woman,"  as  he  found  her,  that  he  now  cast  about  in 
his  mind  for  something  that  might  serve  to  destroy 
the  impression  of  his  unfortunate  first  attempt.  And 
that  it  was  a  considerable  task  he  set  himself, 
any  one  might  testify,  who  has  systematically  given 
himself  up  to  the  companionship  of — well,  the  other 
sort. 

Still  no  one  could  call  Miss  Eunice  plain. 

Yet  it  was  Lady  Margery  who  actually  came  to  the 
rescue  after  all.  She  bustled  into  the  room,  looking 
endlessly  important,  in  her  most  becoming  hat. 

"  I  am  going  to  drive  to  Bond  Street,  Eunice,  but  oi 
course  you  are  not  coming  too  ?  We  are  going  to  give 
our  big  party  next  week,  you  remember  ?  "  turning  to 
Lord  Colbeck.  "  Well,  Eunice  is  sure  to  remind  you, 
and  I've  a  thousand  and  one  things  to  see  after. 
Things  I'm  bound  to  do  myself." 

It  was  the  one  point  upon  which  My  Lady  deceived 
herself,  that  her  household  could  not  have  managed 
without  her  help. 


CONCERNING  A  NAMELESS  HEROINE   91 

She  stood  toying  with  the  door  handle.  She  seemed 
undecided.  "Well — au  revoir"  she  cried  lightly,  but 
she  did  not  go. 

"So  you've  finished  the  tale?"  she  said  at  last. 

"  Yes,"  said  Lord  Colbeck,  "  we  have  finished,  and 
determined  to  forget  the  tale  of  the  Nameless  Heroine. 
We  have  come  to  your  opinion  of  it,  as  a  tale." 

"  The  Nameless  Heroine,"  said  My  Lady  reflectively, 
"  I  like  that.  We  might  suggest  it  to  Mr  Laister  as  a 
likely  title  for  his  next  poem."  She  had  seemed  a 
little  doubtful  of  purpose  before,  perhaps,  but  she  was 
so  no  longer. 

"  Yes,  I  like  that,"  she  repeated.  "  So  good-bye.  I 
must  not  forget  to  go  and  see  about  that  vase  too.  It 
has  never  been  sent." 

She  went  off  bright  and  smiling,  with  a  last  look  over 
her  shoulder,  full  of  meaning  and  mischief  at  Lord 
Colbeck.  A  look  no  man  could  have  resented  (Oh !  of 
course  Miss  Eunice  did  not  see  it;  that  might  have 
made  a  difference),  and  especially  since,  in  addition 
to  some  former  assistance,  she  had  just  supplied  him 
with  the  clue  he  needed. 

"Talking  of  vases,"  he  said,  "reminds  me  of  some- 
thing. The  mater  is  in  high  feather  just  now.  Have 
you  seen  the  current  Mayfair  ? " 

"No,"  said  Miss  Eunice.  "Is  there  anything 
special  ?  " 

"I  should  call  it  very  ordinary,"  admitted  Lord 
Colbeck,  then  he  went  on  ;  "  there's  a  poem  by  Laurence 
Laister  in  it ;  there  generally  is,  I  believe." 

"How  clever  he  is!"  said  Miss  Eunice  with  quite 
unassumed  admiration. 


92  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

"  It  is  a  matter  of  taste "  the  words  were  again  on 

Lord  Colbeck's  lips,  but  he  restrained  himself.  "Do 
you  think  so?"  he  questioned  instead,  rather  lamely. 
And,  as  he  could  not  help  reflecting,  Lady  Margery 
would  have  pointed  out  to  him. 

Not  so,  however,  Miss  Eunice. 

"  Think  so ! "  she  said,  in  all  seriousness.  "  Don't 
you?" 

"  It  depends  a  great  deal  on  oneself  how  one  views 
these  things,"  he  said  modestly.  "Perhaps  I  am  a 
little  slow,  and  I  should  say  your  opinion  is  the 
general  one.  Now,  the  mater  says  his  poem  this  week 
is  a  '  masterpiece,'  and  she  " — he  allowed  himself  to  smile 
now,  he  felt  it  was  his  due — "  ought  to  know  an  artistic 
thing  when  she  sees  it." 

Even  Miss  Eunice  made  no  direct  answer.  She  only 
nodded  her  head  gravely.  Her  father's  was  the 
standard  she  had  set  herself  long  ago,  and  he  had 
been  known  more  than  once  to  express  himself  on 
this  point  as  regards  the  Duchess. 

"  Her  Grace  is  quick  enough,"  continued  Her  Grace's 
son.  "  She  actually  opened  the  Mayfair  at  that  very 
page.  She  told  me  so  herself.  True,  Laister  may 
have  given  her  a  hint,  but  I  should  say  not.  Yet  he 
knows  a  thing  or  two,  does  our  Poet!  You  should 
have  seen  the  mater's  face ;  it  was  simply  radiant. 
Even  explaining  it  all  to  me  didn't  seem  to  damp  her 
spirits,  and  I  didn't  let  her  off  a  word,  I  can  tell  you. 
I  expect  she's  got  the  whole  thing  by  heart  by  this 
time.  Latest  Edition — Glossary  and  Appendix  by  fche 
Duchess  of  Pentyre.  Laister's  poems  will  find  him  in 
gloves  yet ' " 


CONCERNING  A  NAMELESS  HEROINE    93 

"I  don't  think,"  said  Miss  Eunice,  "that  I  under- 
stand quite " 

"  If  you  understand  at  all,"  said  Lord  Colbeck,  with 
great  candour,  "  you'll  be  in  advance  of  me,  the  Glossary 
notwithstanding." 

"  Well,  what  is  the  poem  about,  then  ? "  said  Eunice. 
There  was  a  touch  of  impatience,  no  more,  in  her 
manner,  but  there  was  a  good  deal  of  bewilderment. 

It  was  Lord  Colbeck's  turn  to  relent  again. 

"  Oh,  come  now ! "  he  said,  smiling,  and  his  smile 
when  he  chose  could  be  a  very  winning  one.  "  It's 
hardly  fair  to  ask  me,  you  know.  Suppose  you  save  it 
— for  the  mater ! " 

But  to  return  to  the  tale  of  the  Nameless  Heroine 
(since  it  was  only  Lord  Colbeck  who  promised  it  for- 
getfulness).  It  must  be  admitted  that  Lady  Margery 
had  been  exceedingly  kind  in  trying  to  take  its  burden 
upon  her  graceful  shoulders.  Kindness,  indeed,  was 
a  characteristic  of  My  Lady's.  Yet  she  said  to  Lord 
Colbeck  later,  ignoring  his  promise,  that  he  fully 
deserved  the  worst  which  could  have  befallen  him,  so 
that  it  must  have  been  on  Penelope's  account  that  she 
exerted  herself,  and  Penelope  such  a  new-comer !  My 
Lady  gave  her  own  explanation — she  often  did. 

"  She  looked  to  enjoy  it  so  thoroughly ;  like  a  child 
revelling  in  mischief,"  she  said,  referring  to  Penelope 
in  the  act  which  was  afterwards  made  into  a  story  by 
Lord  Colbeck.  "  That  was  what  took  me  so,  for  in  the 
thing  itself  there  was  nothing  much."  My  Lady 
paused  reflectively.  "It — it  has  been  done  before!" 
she  ended,  smilingly. 


94  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

Yes,  My  Lady  was  even  exceptionally  kind,  con- 
sidering her  own  claim  to  good  looks.  For  it  was 
none  of  her  fault  that  Miss  Eunice  had  failed  to  dis- 
cover in  her  stepmother  the  heroine  whom  she  had  not 
waited  to  name  before  she  disapproved. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

THE   SAFE   SIDS 

BUT  what,  it  may  be  asked,  of  the  Poet  all  this 
time  ? 

He  had  seen  with  his  own  eyes  how  Penelope  carried 
herself  in  a  room  full  of  people,  and  now  was  he 
satisfied  ?  He  had  seen  her  amongst  other  women — 
the  women  of  his  world — and  had  they  lost  in  interest, 
had  they  paled  beside  her  ?  Was  she  still  his  most 
vivid  impression  in  any  place  wheresoever  he  met  her, 
just  as  she  had  been  in  blessed  Blythedown,  in  Auntie's 
quiet,  sheltered  home?  Moreover,  he  had  heard — he 
had  been  eager  to  hear,  listening  greedily  for  every 
detail — the  chorus  of  admiration  which  the  Duchess' 
guest  had  called  forth  from  all  who  came  to  know  her, 
a  chorus  which  proved  him  to  have  been  right  beyond 
possibility  of  dispute,  when  he  marvelled  at  Penelope's 
charm,  hoping,  believing  it  irresistibla 

So  what  of  the  Poet  now  ? 

Truth  to  tell,  the  Poet's  plight  was  not  wholly 
enviable,  and  Penelope's  visit  to  London  was  no  more 
a  time  of  unalloyed  joy  to  him  than  to  her.  It  had 
only  wanted  the  world's  approbation  of  the  beautiful 


96  THE   POET  AND   PENELOPE 

wayside  flower  he  had  discovered  (but  it  was  only  in 
his  unrevealed  thoughts  that  he  so  named  her,  for  a 
poet  has  limits)  to  fan  his  love  into  a  steady,  un- 
quenchable flame.  To  the  more  impetuous  it  may 
seem  a  poor  quality  of  affection  which  needs  such 
promptings,  but  of  such  was  our  Poet,  in  spite  of  his 
pretensions,  and  he  could  no  more  help  his  nature 
than  those  of  the  more  ardent  blood.  Nor  must  it 
be  overlooked,  in  his  favour,  that  he  was  the  man 
Penelope  loved. 

Yes,  if  the  fever  had  developed  slowly,  the  fever  was 
there.  She  was  beautiful,  she  was  desirable,  and  (he 
could  not  prevent  this  from  weighing)  desired !  He 
filled  in  forjiimself  the  endless  Chant  of  Love  ;  as  old 
as  the  human  race,  as  threadbare  as  time,  yet  bran  new 
to  each  singer.  He  elaborated  it,  adorned  and  fes- 
tooned it,  as  his  profession  and  his  temperament  gave 
him  words.  He  stepped,  as  it  were,  outside  its 
enchanted  circle,  that  he  might  offer  up  to  it  sacrifice 
of  praise  and  thanksgiving  with  all  the  litanies  of  the 
suppliant,  in  verse,  blank,  and  otherwise.  He  moved 
slowly  along  the  devoted  way,  lest  he  should  miss  any 
breath  of  its  sweetness.  He  would  hardly  admit  to 
himself  that  Penelope  was  his  for  the  asking,  lest  he 
should  lose  one  pang  of  its  exquisite  pain. 

But,  for  a  single  drawback,  the  Poet  would  have  been 
hugely  pleased  with  himself  in  love. 

Now  the  Poet's  drawback,  as  luck  would  have  it,  was 
connected  with  the  Duchess'  secret  satisfaction,  being 
indeed  Penelope's  income — or  rather  her  want  of  one. 
Having  obtained  his  information  from  Penelope  herself, 
he  could  have  blotted  out  the  Duchess'  satisfaction,  had 


THE  SAFE  SIDE  97 

she  revealed  it  to  him,  just  as  completely  as  he  had 
originally  helped  her  to  it,  by  the  sale  of  the  Great 
Bronze  Vase,  for  the  furnishing  forth  of  what  Penelope 
called  her  "  war  paint." 

And  his  own  means  made  a  penniless  wife  an 
impossibility;  that  was  the  long  and  the  short  of 
it. 

Sometimes,  when  in  his  strong  imagination  life 
without  Penelope  appeared  to  him  in  shapes  which 
terrified  and  revolted  him,  he  would  try,  still  in  fancy, 
to  plan  existence  anew  for  both  of  them,  setting  him- 
self to  realise  and  weigh  the  merits  of  a  state  he  only 
had  knowledge  of  at  second-hand.  Hundreds  of  couples 
began  happy  married  life  in  small  suburban  villas. 
Such  a  life  and  such  a  villa  as  even  his  income,  often 
to  his  uses  so  inadequate,  would  support  without  undue 
straining.  Having  a  gift  for  thoroughness,  he  did  not 
neglect  details. 

In  the  yearly  round  this  life  would  include,  he 
supposed,  an  occasional  visit  to  the  theatres,  a  dinner 
party  or  two,  attendance,  perhaps,  at  a  scattering  of 
local  dances  of  the  tennis-club-annual  order.  A  trip  to 
the  seaside  in  the  summer,  and  possibly  a  week-end  on 
the  river  here  and  there.  For  the  rest — work.  The 
woman  about  her  house  and  the  man  in  town ;  where 
he  earned  the  money  to  keep  the  woman  working  at 
home.  Hundreds  of  people  lived  this  life,  and  found  no 
fault  with  it ;  so  why  not  he  and  Penelope  ? 

Without  dignifying  his  conclusion  with  the  status  of 
a  reason,  the  Poet  found  an  insupportable  objection  to 
start  with,  and  to  end  with,  for  that  matter.  For  he 
had  no  work  to  take  him  daily  to  Town  (and  what 

0 


98  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

would  be  the  good  of  all  his  time  to  devote  to  his  Muse, 
if  that  delicate  exotic  was  to  pine  and  die  in  the  re- 
stricted suburban  air,  as  he  foresaw  it  must  ? )  ;  he  would 
be  always  at  home  at  the  elbow  and  in  the  way  of  the 
working  Penelope. 

And  in  such  constant,  all-day-long  companionship 

(True  it  would  be  with  Penelope,  Sweetest  and  Best). 
But  from  morning  till  night,  and  from  night  until 
morning  again  ?  And  so  on  for  unrelieved  years  upon 
years,  while  they  grew  grey  (fancy  Penelope  grey! 
Unashamedly  grey,  as  hair  is  worn  in  the  suburbs). 
And,  all  too  probably,  tired  in  mind,  uncertain  of 
temper,  indifferent  in  love.  Eather  than  face  Pene- 
lope's indifference,  even  at  fifty,  the  Poet  abandoned 
the  prospect  of  unemployed  life  in  the  villa  once  and 
for  all  Let  those  extol  it  who  had  tried  it — and 
could ! 

In  like  manner  he  mapped  out  life  in  a  remote 
country  village,  such  as  he  knew  of,  and  where  he 
would  be  able  "  to  run "  he  imagined  to  quite  a  fine 
cottage,  standing  in  a  respectable  sized  garden.  Such  a 
garden  as  was  inseparable  from  his  thoughts  of  Penelope, 
in  spite  of  her  recent  social  success. 

Here  Penelope  would  be  more  in  her  natural  setting, 
and  he  would  see  her  in  the  passing  of  years  against  all 
the  old  accustomed  backgrounds — pale  spring  flowers, 
summer's  wealth  of  roses,  autumn's  rich  tones,  the 
white  witcheries  of  winter.  Here  they  would  have 
even  less  society,  but  what  there  was  would  also  prob- 
ably be  better  worth  the  having.  Here,  at  least,  he 
should  be  able  to  keep  his  Muse  alive. 

But — again — there  would  only  be  themselves.    The 


THE  SAFE  SIDE  99 

days  would  be  spent  in  monotony  unending.  The 
horror  of  ekeing  out  his  love  of  Nature,  when  Nature 
had  begun  to  pall — how  would  he  face  that  alone  ? 
Then  Penelope  had  actually  been  brought  up  to  some- 
thing very  like  this  particular  life,  but  had  she  not 
seized  with  eagerness  on  the  first  opportunity  of  getting 
away  from  it  to  a  fuller  enjoyment  elsewhere  ?  (Though 
she  spoke  of  the  change  as  but  transitory).  And  would 
she  go  into  exile  with  him  and  a  certainty  of  never 
emerging  from  it  ?  Even  that  the  Poet  doubted. 

Nor  was  he  able,  and  this  is  noteworthy,  to  imagine 
himself  supplementing  his  means  with  his  pen  to  any 
appreciable  extent,  at  any  rate,  for  long  to  come.  His 
poetry's  worth  had  never  greatly  deceived  our  Poet,  and 
the  present  strong  search-light  he  was  turning  on  all 
that  concerned  him,  pierced  through  the  last  veil 
of  uncertainty  he  had  left  hanging  for  custom's  sake. 
If,  with  Lady  Marian  Markham's  able  help,  his  Drama 
should  prove  the  success  she  assured  him  it  must  be — 
well,  then,  his  prospects  would  be  brighter  ;  he  might 
yet  marry  Penelope,  and  the  exile  might  be  only  of 
limited  duration.  Or  Penelope  might  consent  to  wait 
for  him  until  exile — complete  exile,  at  any  rate — should 
have  become  unnecessary.  But,  without  being  par- 
ticularly modest,  the  Poet  could  not  help  feeling  that 
the  masterpiece  was  yet  unwritten  which  would  carry 
him — for  all  Lady  Marian's  help — far  enough  to  be 
of  any  practical,  immediate  use,  on  the  way  to 
entire  success.  She  might  not  be  mistaken  (and  the 
thing  was  worth  a  trial),  but  he  honestly  believed 
her  so. 

This  was  what  came  of  being  born  a  poet  in  the 


100  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

present  prosaic  century.  Even,  as  he  bitterly  reflected, 
unreasonable  expectations  were  more  or  less  denied  to 
him. 

And  if,  perchance,  he  was  the  mistaken  one  ?  If  his 
work,  after  all,  outran  his  judgment  ?  Then  it  would 
be  a  thing  of  time  to  build  an  abiding  structure  on  that 
first  reliable  foundation.  And,  meanwhile,  might  not 
Penelope  be  carried  for  ever  out  of  his  reach  by 
some  one  better  equipped  ?  Even  if  she  loved  him  now, 
might  she  not  grow  tired  of  waiting  for  words  he  dared 
not  speak  ? 

Even  if  she  loved  him  now!  What  right  had  he 
really  to  suppose  she  did  ?  Penelope  of  Blythedown, 
always  pleased  to  see  him,  and  pleased  to  show  her 
pleasure,  was  very  little  altered,  now  that  she  had 
come  to  London.  But  there  was  an  alteration; 
knowing  her  so  well,  loving  her  at  last  so  well,  he  could 
not  miss  it.  Once  or  twice  he  caught  her  looking 
at  him  strangely,  and  meeting  his  eye  she  had  turned 
swiftly  away.  Penelope  to  turn  away  !  That  told  a 
tale,  but  was  it  the  tale  of  love  ?  He,  a  poet  at  heart, 
as  well  as  by  calling,  could  not  say. 

Then,  once  she  had  drawn  him  aside,  it  was  soon 
after  she  came  up,  and  they  were  presently  alone  for 
the  time. 

"  I  want  to  look  at  you,"  she  had  said,  and  the  Poet 
gladly  suffered  her  inspection. 

But  the  laughing  criticisms  on  his  bearing,  on  his 
clothes,  or  the  cut  of  his  hair,  which  he  had  grown  to 
rely  on  as  a  means  of  keeping  bright  his  reputation  for 
being  one  of  the  best-dressed  men  in  London,  were  not 
forthcoming.  Penelope  studied  him,  without  her  usual 


THE  SAFE  SIDE  101 

running  commentary  to  reveal  the  progress  of  her 
study. 

"  But  you  don't  look  any  different ! "  she  had  said  at 
last,  and  almost  as  though  she  considered  him  without 
a  right  to  his  sameness  of  aspect.  "  I  wonder  how  it  is 
that  I  cannot  see  you  any  differently,"  she  went  on  ; 
impatience,  puzzle,  something  he  could  not  fathom,  in 
her  tones.  But  when  the  Poet  pressed  to  know  why 
he  should  be  expected  to  look  differently,  she  would 
not  be  persuaded  to  enlighten  him. 

He  had  not  yet  discovered  that  it  was  as  the  affianced 
husband  of  Lady  Marian  Markham  (Lady  Marian 
happily  married,  and  a  contemporary  of  the  Poet's 
mother !)  that  she  was  striving  to  realise  him,  and  for 
the  most  part  failing  utterly  to  do  so,  to  the  furthering, 
as  she  was  convinced,  of  her  own  unhappiness.  And, 
wanting  that  key,  much  was  obscured  to  him. 

Never  once  did  he  connect  unhappiness  and  Pene- 
lope. To  the  outward  eye  they  seemed  so  far  apart — 
she  willed  it  so,  and  Penelope  was  strong  of  will. 
That  alone,  made  plain,  would  have  cleared  up  much 
else. 

As  things  were,  or  seemed  to  be,  to  abandon  the 
cautious  shade  of  his  safe  side  would  have  been  to 
break  all  the  traditions  of  his  life.  The  safe  side,  which 
was  apparently  the  opposite  side,  to  where  Penelope 
walked  so  fearlessly.  But  time  after  time,  and 
especially  in  her  presence,  he  was  sorely  beset  by  that 
other  part  of  him  which  recognised  no  caution  ;  urging 
him  instead  to  claim  her  at  all  risk,  and  if  he  could. 
To  make  her  his,  if  he  could.  To  try  his  luck,  at  least. 

On  such  occasions  it  was  that  Penelope  would  chide 


102  THE  POET  AND   PENELOPE 

him.  "  You  are  not  at  your  best  to-night,"  she  would 
say  perhaps.  And  the  Poet  would  have  no  fitting 
denial  ready  made,  for  he  found  his  self -prescribed  safe 
side  but  stony  walking,  and  it  crippled  him  in  every 
way. 

Except  in  just  the  matter  of  writing  verses,  too 
sacred  (at  present)  to  show  to  any  one.  And  what  was 
the  good  of  that  ? 


CHAPTEE  XV 

AN  INTELLECTUAL  AFFAIR 

"  You  must  try  and  look  as  learned  as  you  can  to-night, 
Penelope,"  the  Duchess  said  (they  were  at  breakfast), 
"  for  we  are  going  where  frivolity  will  be  at  a  discount." 

"  Intellect,  in  fact,"  announced  Lord  Colbeck,  "  will 
be  our  only  wear." 

"  Then  I  am  glad  mine  is  of  the  dense  and  cloudy 
order;  it  will  make  the  better  covering,"  laughed 
Penelope.  "  You  and  I,"  she  nodded  at  Lord  Colbeck, 
"  will  be  just  about  as  much  dressed  as  usual.  Do 
we  take  the  Duke  ? "  she  asked  of  the  Duchess. 

The  Duke,  who  breakfasted  long  before  his  family, 
in  London  as  in  the  country,  was  not  present. 

"  No  ;  oh  no,"  said  the  Duchess.  "  Even  my  good 
management  has  never  served  to  produce  him  at  any 
of  Marian's  parties." 

"  And,  in  an  ordinary  way,"  said  Lord  Colbeck,  "  I 
follow  my  dear  Dad's  lead  and  thank  him  for  it." 

"  But  you  are  going  to-night  ? "  questioned  Penelope. 

"  I  am  going  to-night.  In  a  manner  I  am  bound  to 
go  to-night,"  confessed  His  Lordship  rather  solemnly, 
"  for  Eunice  will  be  there." 

He  was  not  looking  at  the  Duchess,  so  he  could  not 

103 


104  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

see  her  sudden  frown.  Penelope  saw  it,  however,  and  as 
a  consequence,  seized  on  the  moment  as  an  appropriate 
one  in  which  to  try  an  experiment  for  her  private 
amusement. 

"  And  I  shall  be  there,"  said  she. 

"  Good  !  Yes — you  will  be  there !  "  smiled  Lord 
Colbeck.  "  So  I  wouldn't  change  places  with  the  Dad, 
this  time." 

And  the  Duchess  was  also  smiling;  Penelope  did 
not  fail  to  notice  the  fact.  But  with  her  smile  still  in 
evidence,  the  Duchess,  without  design,  but  effectually, 
changed  the  conversation,  and  Penelope  did  fail  to 
obtain  further  particulars  concerning  this  Marian,  who 
gave  the  superior  parties. 

Not  that  she  wanted  to  know  more  than  she  did 
know,  as  she  told  herself  a  dozen  times  during  that 
long  day.  How  willingly,  indeed,  would  she  have 
known  less,  for  she  had  no  doubt  in  her  own  mind 
substantial  enough  to  take  refuge  in.  This  Marian, 
who  collected  intellect,  when  she  wished  to  be  enter- 
taining ("  so  unsuitable ! "  sighed  Penelope,  being 
rather  prejudiced),  why,  of  course  she  was  the  Poet's 
Lady  Marian  Markham,  who  else  ?  Why — his  Thistle- 
sifter  !  The  woman  with  the  opportunity,  who  was 
to  help  him  to  fame.  Who  was  also  the  woman  he 
loved,  and,  worst  of  all,  in  Penelope's  eyes,  the  woman 
who  loved  him.  Not  as  he  might  be  loved,  was  loved, 
but  with  the  added  possession  of  other  gifts  to  make  a 
little  love  go  a  long  way. 

The  romance  Penelope  weaved  for  her  Poet  was  a  very 
full-blown  affair  by  this  time.  She  gave  so  much  thought 
to  it  indeed,  that  its  elaborateness  is  not  a  matter  for 


AN  INTELLECTUAL  AFFAIK  105 

surprise.  But  she  had  never  so  thoroughly  believed 
in  it  herself  as  she  believed  in  it  to-day,  when  in  a 
few  hours  she  must  meet  the  woman  to  whom  she  had 
grudgingly  conceded  the  honours  of  the  heroine.  And 
it  was  without  doubt  the  worst  day  she  had  spent  in 
London,  although  the  whole  of  her  visit  had  been 
more  or  less  overshadowed  by  the  thought  of  this 
meeting. 

Yet  Lord  Col  beck,  who  spent  most  of  the  day  with 
her,  parted  from  her  to  dress  with  an  apparently 
irrepressible  tribute  in  her  praise,  "  You  are  ripping ! " 
said  he.  "  The  best  fun  going."  And  although  it  was 
far  from  being  the  first  time  he  had  made  the  remark, 
his  tone  was  unusually  emphatic. 

Penelope  went  up  to  her  room  with  lingering  foot- 
steps. She  would  have  given  anything  to  free  herself 
from  the  necessity  of  dressing  just  then.  A  sudden 
wave  of  home-sickness  intensified  itself  into  a  physical 
reality;  for  a  few  minutes  she  sat  helplessly  longing 
for  immediate  shelter  in  Auntie's  quiet  home,  for  the 
comforting  touch,  once  again,  of  Auntie's  frail  arms. 
If  she  might  but  lay  her  head  on  the  soft  lap,  to  feel 
the  loving,  white  fingers  on  her  hair,  and  not  to  be 
forced  into  explanation,  which  would  have  spoilt 
everything.  "Oh,  I  should  like  to  run  away,"  she 
told  herself.  "I  am  ever  so  much  weaker  than  I 
thought." 

But  the  unwonted  mood  did  not,  fortunately  for  her 
reputation,  prove  lasting.  She  had  never  appeared  as 
radiant,  even  to  herself,  as  when  she  took  a  last  look 
in  the  long  glass  at  her  completed  toilet.  Her  dress 
was  one  she  had  not  worn  before,  and  was  also  the  one 


106  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

she  "  fancied  most,"  as  she  put  it,  of  those  the  Great 
Bronze  Vase  had  helped  her  to.  "All  shimmering 
gold  and  white"  was  the  Poet's  description  of  it 
afterwards,  and  for  ornament,  Auntie's  beautiful 
pearls  hung  round  her  beautiful,  bare  neck.  She 
held  her  head  high ;  she  had  temporary  control,  at 
least,  of  her  pride  again,  and  it  became  her  wonder- 
fully, as  she  saw. 

The  thought  of  the  vision  in  the  glass  remained 
helpfully  with  her  during  the  rapid  drive  partywards  ; 
which  was  the  time  she  had  looked  forward  to  with 
most  apprehension,  as  likely  to  prove  overcoming. 
The  Duchess,  moreover,  had  been  enthusiastic  in  her 
approval  during  dinner,  and  Penelope  even  fell  to  re- 
peating her  kindly  criticisms  over  to  herself,  as  a 
species  of  charm  against  depression  and  its  devastating 
effects.  If  this  woman  had  won  the  Poet,  she,  Penelope, 
was  determined  to  impress  him  with  a  sense  of  what 
he  had  lost  in  losing  her,  if,  by  taking  pains,  the  thing 
was  to  be  done.  So  that  he  might  suffer,  and  through 
him  the  woman. 

For  Penelope  was  very  human,  and  also  a  little 
incredulous  concerning  the  Poet's  capability  of  retaining 
a  lasting  wound.  "It  won't  hurt  him  to  be  a  little 
sorry,"  she  maintained,  finding  ample  excuse  in  her 
own  overgrowth  of  sorrow.  "  He  won't  feel  it  long,  and 
it  helps  me,"  she  added.  There  indeed  she  was  right 
enough.  For  it  is  very  doubtful  whether,  with  all  her 
gifts,  Penelope  would  have  made  the  hit  she  did,  if  she 
had  not  been  urged  to  supplement  nature  with 
extraordinary  effort,  by  her  determination  to  prove 
the  Poet  right  in  his  admiration  of  her.  And 


AN  INTELLECTUAL  AFFAIR  107 

equally  wrong  in  his  self-imposed  limit  to  that 
admiration. 

So  Penelope's  head  was  still  high  in  air  as  she 
followed  the  Duchess  up  the  wide  staircase  into  Lady 
Marian  Markham's  drawing-room,  already  filling  with 
guests.  She  looked  perfect,  and  even  her  knowing  it  by 
no  means  detracted  from  her  perfection. 

The  Duchess  gave  a  swift  backward  glance  of 
anticipatory  triamph.  Then  she  turned  to  an  even 
more  dignified,  white-haired  likeness  of  herself,  waiting 
with  a  gracious  my-hand-at-your-service  air  to  welcome 
the  incoming  throng. 

"  How  are  you,  Marian  ?  You  see  I  have  brought 
you  your  discovery,"  the  Duchess  said.  Then  she 
seemed  to  sweep  her  guest  in  front  of  her,  giving  the 
spiritual  likeness  of  herself  the  opportunity  of  reversing 
the  usual  order  by  voluntarily  taking  Penelope's  hand 
in  hers,  with  some  evidence  of  warm  interest  quite  of 
the  family  order. 

The  Duchess  loved  explanations,  so  she  continued — 

"You  remember  my  sister,  Lady  Marian  Markham, 
don't  you,  Penelope  ?  You  knew  her  before  you  knew 
me,  of  course,  didn't  you  ?  Because  of  that  I  was 
inclined,  at  first,  to  be  a  little  jealous,  but  it  is  wearing 
off." 

"It  will  be  my  pleasant  duty  to  revive  it  then!" 
smiled  Lady  Marian,  nodding  her  approval  of  Penelope 
at  her  sister,  and  turning  to  a  fresh  arrival  with  her 
reluctance  only  thinly  veiled. 

While  Penelope  felt  herself  following  in  the  Duchess* 
wake  without  a  care  left  in  all  the  world. 

Incidentally  she  now  knew  why  the  Duchess*  face. 


108  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

and  even  Lord  Colbeck's,  had  seemed  vaguely  familiar 
at  first  sight.  The  garden  party,  where  for  a  brief 
moment  or  two  she  had  been  spoken  to  by  Lady  Marian 
and  stared  at  by  Lord  Markham — red  of  face  and 
genial  in  manners — flashed  back  on  her  memory.  Of 
course!  that  was  where  and  how  she  first  heard  the 
name  which  of  late  had  grown  so  distasteful  to  her. 
But  beyond  everything,  and  over  and  above  everything, 
was  her  joy  in  the  reinstating  of  the  Poet  in  his  old 
place  in  her  regard. 

If  all  it  meant  to  her,  and  all  it  made  possible  to  her, 
took  her  breath  away — just  while  Lady  Marian  held 
her  hand — when  she  recovered  from  her  breathless- 
ness  it  was  that  she  might  outshine  herself  consciously 
and  unmistakably. 

She  had  not  enjoyed  herself  like  this  since  she  came 
to  London ;  not  so  well,  in  fact,  in  all  her  life.  For 
such  a  success  as  she  was  making  had  been  her  lifelong 
dream,  and  by  contrast  had  flattened  all  previous  enjoy- 
ments. And  now  her  success  was  unfettered  from 
within. 

She  looked  round  for  the  Poet,  as  the  proper  person 
to  share  with  her  the  first  fruits  of  emancipation  from 
doubt,  but  not  seeing  him  anywhere,  she  turned  to  Lord 
Colbeck,  who  met  the  new-springing  gladness  in  her 
face  with  something  of  reverential  awe  in  his. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

W0h — only  that  I  am  so  glad  to  be  alive  1"  said 
Penelope,  and  would  say  no  more. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

OP  A  NIGHTINGALE  IN  A  WILD  CHEREY-TEEE 

AFTER  all  it  was  the  Poet  who  found  Penelope ; 
found  her  with  Lord  Colbeck  whom  she  was  plainly 
dismissing,  so  that  he  stayed  unsuspiciously  to  claim 
her  attention  next,  and  heard  more  than  he  was  meant 
to  hear  without  fault  of  his  own. 

Lord  Colbeck  wore  a  repentant  air,  and  it  was  evident 
to  the  Poet  that  His  Lordship  had  been  recently 
carried  away  (presumably  by  Penelope's  charm)  beyond 
those  hard  and  fast,  if  unseen  barriers,  which  his 
engagement  should  have  forced  upon  him.  The  Poet 
was  not  the  one  to  blame  him  (yet  he  did  blame 
him),  nor  apparently  did  Penelope  consider  censure 
necessary.  Pity,  indeed,  clouded  for  the  moment  the 
brightness  of  her  eyes,  and  lent  at  least  the  semblance 
of  uncertainty  to  her  voice. 

"  Oh,  I  am  sorry  ! "  she  said.  "  You  mustn't  even  think 
such  things,  you  know,  and  it  is  so  difficult  to  help 
one's  thoughts.  Oh,  I  will  forgive  you ;  it  will  be  to  me 
as  if  it  had  never  been.  Yes,  you  can  go  to  Miss 
Huddleston  Jones,  it  is  your  duty,  isn't  it  ?  You  can 
go,  and  you  will" 


110  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

"  Yes,  I  can  go,  and  I  will,"  said  Lord  Colbeck.  "  I 
would  face  death  itself  to  win  a  word  of  respect  from 
you,  and  Eunice — Eunice  is  only  so  much  too  good  for 
me,"  he  ended  ruefully. 

And  he  went  without  seeing  the  Poet,  who  waited  a 
moment  longer  before  he  faced  Penelope  to  watch  all 
pity  fade  out  of  her  eyes  and  an  unknown  light  take  its 
place.  Before  the  glory  of  which  he  stood  amazed. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  he  asked,  even  as  Lord  Colbeck. 

Penelope  did  not  answer  him  directly.  "  Sit  down, 
do  sit  down,"  she  said. 

The  Poet  took  the  seat  beside  her  willingly,  for  the 
man  in  him  refused  to  meet  her  clear  glance  any  longer 
unless  he  first  pierced  its  mystery.  Such  an  open 
mystery,  and  yet  most  mysterious  in  this,  that,  before 
God,  he  saw  nothing  in  himself  worthy  of  her  love. 

"  I'm  so  glad  you've  come  here,"  Penelope  was  saying 
as  her  sweet,  high  voice  broke  through  the  Poet's  inward 
wrestling,  which  had  never  seemed  so  likely  to  end 
fatally  (to  his  caution)  as  now.  "  So  very  glad,  and  isn't 
it  a  dear,  safe  corner  ? " 

This  was  the  Penelope  he  knew  of  old,  Penelope  of 
Blythedown.  The  Poet's  ready  imagination  was  alert 
to  fancy  his  surroundings  trees,  his  seat  a  fallen  tree- 
trunk.  All  that  was  new  about  her  was  that  in  her 
eyes  lay — No,  he  dared  not  face  again,  so  soon,  what  lay 
in  her  eyes.  Yet  it  had  always,  in  all  the  old  days, 
been  there.  Unawakened,  or  perhaps  only  veiled,  but 
there ;  he  knew  that  at  last.  And  now  that  it  was 
awakened,  or  unveiled,  he  recognised  also  that  this 
was  what  he  had  been  missing  during  the  last  few 
weeks. 


A  NIGHTINGALE  IN  A  CHEKRY-TEEE  111 

How  he  had  missed  it !  What  would  he  not  have 
given  to  welcome  it  as  such  a  thing  should  be  wel- 
comed ?  The  return  of  Penelope's  love  for  him, 
unashamed !  Well,  he  was  not  ready  to  give  up  his 
accustomed  way  of  living  for  it.  Not  quite,  though 
very  nearly. 

Yet  he  hated  that  attitude  of  not  quite.  He  hated 
life  because  those  two  words  stood  so  appropriately  for 
his  whole  view  of  it ;  hated  the  dead  weight  of  his 
inherited,  inborn  self,  which  was  the  only  thing — he 
knew  it  for  a  certainty  now — which  really  kept  him 
from  Penelope. 

Meanwhile  Penelope's  joy  overflowed  into  her  speech, 
and  she  knew  that,  but  was  past  caring.  She  talked 
to  him  as  she  had  been  used  to  talk  to  him  of  all,  or 
nearly  all,  that  was  uppermost  in  her  mind.  She  told 
him  of  her  own  mistake  about  Lady  Marian  Markham 
even,  although  there  she  would  have  hurried  on  to 
other  things,  for  the  incident  had  its  sad  side  still — it 
had  wasted  so  much  of  her  time. 

The  Poet  let  himself  go  to  the  extent  of  an  inquiry 
for  details.  Ungovernable  curiosity  demanded  it 

"  Did  you  think  I  loved  her,  then  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  You  thought  I  meant  to  marry  her  ?  * 

0  Why,  of  course !     That's  what  I  said." 

"Were  you  thinking  I  should  marry  without 
love?" 

"  I  don't  know.  It  is  so  difficult  for  a  third  person 
to  tell,"  she  added,  in  a  mixture  of  apology  and  ex- 
planation, which  fell  short  of  either 


112  THE  POET  AND   PENELOPE 

"Were  you  sorry,  Penelope?"  whispered  the  Poet, 
holding  himself  as  it  were  at  arm's  length. 

"  Well,  it  did  seem  unworthy  of  a  poet ! "  admitted 
Penelope,  and  he  could  fancy  just  the  gleam  of  mischief 
hidden  by  her  lashes. 

"That  is  not  what  I  meant,  and  you  know  it," 
he  said  quickly,  being  almost  beyond  his  own  reach 
at  last 

"  What  did  you  mean  ? — tell  me,  tell  me !  "  invited 
Penelope,  very  softly. 

"  You  know,"  insisted  the  Poet,  now  past  all  holding 
back. 

"  Oh !  but  tell  me,"  she'  pleaded,  unwilling  to  lose 
anything.  "  If  he  asks  me,  I  must  say  yes,  after  all," 
she  told  herself ;  "  I  couldn't  help  it." 

"You  know  all  you  have  been  to  me,  and  that  I 
should  never  have  deceived  you  like  that " 

"Like  what?"  interrupted  Penelope,  childishly 
anxious  to  spin  out  her  intense  pleasure. 

"  Never  mind,"  hurried  on  the  Poet,  "  that  will  do 
presently."  He  was  not  so  free  from  fear  of  interrup- 
tion, and  his  fears  seemed  of  evil  omen,  for  the  next 
moment  interruption,  in  the  shape  of  Lord  Markham, 
was  upon  them. 

"  You  two ! "  said  he.  "  No,  I'm  not  going  to 
apologise ;  I've  been  unearthed  too  often  in  my  time 
not  to  have  become  revengeful.  Look  here,  Laister, 
do  you  mind — really  ?  My  wife  wants  you ;  sent  me 
after  you,  and  you  know  what  she  is — has  started 
half-a-dozen  more  on  the  quest  by  this  time,  I 
shouldn't  wonder.  Our  singer — can't  even  remember 
her  name — is  about  to  sing  something  of  yours,  as  its 


A  NIGHTINGALE  IN  A  CHEEKY-TKEE   113 

never  been  sung  before,  and  so  on.  It's  all  been  very 
specially  designed,  and  your  presence  is  desired.  You 
hurry,  there's  a  dear  fellow  ;  and,  if  she  will  allow  me, 
I  will  take  care  of  the  lady."  Here  he  turned  to 
Penelope  with  a  geniality  which  almost  won  him  her 
forgiveness.  "  Or  bring  her  after  you,"  he  ended,  "  if 
she  would  like  it  ? " 

"  Yes,  please,  do,"  said  Penelope. 

On  the  way  Lord  Markham,  to  the  best  of  his  rather 
restricted  powers,  endeavoured  to  further  explain  the 
situation  to  his  beautiful  companion.  (The  description 
was  Lord  Markham's.)  He  had  seen,  when  it  was  too 
late,  that  his  interruption  had  been  of  a  somewhat 
serious  nature,  and  if  he  had  been  able  to  draw  back 
he  would  very  willingly  have  done  so.  But  unques- 
tioning obedience  to  his  wife's  commands  was  second 
nature  to  Lord  Markham.  He  was  in  the  habit  of 
saying  that  since  she  had  taken  one  untasteful  thing 
into  her  life,  meaning  himself,  it  was  his  plain  duty 
to  be  useful,  the  ornamental  rdle  being  denied  to  him. 
And  this  was  probably  not  the  first  occasion  on  which 
his  enforced  spirit  of  usefulness,  always  a  dangerous 
quality,  had  led  him  into  an  awkward  corner.  Only, 
to  add  to  his  contrition,  Penelope  was  so  exception- 
ally sweet  over  it,  not  to  mention  her  exceptional 
looks. 

She  knew,  Lord  Markham  began,  no  doubt  a  great 
deal  better  than  he  did,  all  about  this  poem  of  the 
Poet's,  which  the  great  singer  was  to  honour  by 
singing  to-night.  So  Penelope,  with  characteristic 
candour,  confessed  her  own  ignorance  on  all  matters 
poetical. 


114  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  she  said  ;  "  so  much  of  it  seems  so 
meaningless." 

"  It  does,"  assented  Lord  Markham,  with  suspicious 
readiness.  Then,  nothing  loath  to  extend  the  con- 
versation, he  made  her  welcome  to  the  little  he  had 
gathered  concerning  the  present  affair.  And  his  regret 
was  open  and  sincere  that  it  should  be  so  little. 

Altogether,  it  seemed  that  this  poem,  one  of  exceed- 
ing freshness  of  inspiration  and  purity  of  phrasing, 
to  quote  Lady  Marian,  had  been  set  to  music  by  a 
Somebody,  very  high  in  the  musical  profession,  and 
was  to  be  heard  at  present,  both  in  drawing-rooms 
and  from  the  concert  platform,  with  flattering 
frequency. 

"And  between  you  and  me,"  said  Lord  Markham, 
"for  this  is  treason,  my  wife  doesn't  disdain  the 
fashion  quite  as  much  as  she  thinks.  She  considers 
she  has  planned  all  this  simply  on  Laister's  account, 

but !  And  there,"  he  interrupted  himself  to  say, 

"  is  quite  another  instance  of  another  fashion  followed 
by  my  wife.  To  give  this  lucky  Poet  chap  pleasure 
is  quite  a  craze  with  you  ladies."  Here  he  smiled 
knowingly  at  Penelope. 

"  Don't  you  agree  with  me  ? "  he  asked,  expecting  a 
quick  denial,  but  speaking  in  ignorance  of  Penelope. 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  said  she.  "  He  is  such  a  funny  dear, 
and  such  strange  things  please  him." 

Just  then  the  Great  Musician  commenced  playing 
the  opening  bars  of  the  song's  accompaniment,  which 
was  also  his  own  composition,  and  simultaneously 
Lady  Marian  beckoned  her  husband,  who  left  Pene- 
lope's side  with  a  hasty  apology.  So  she  was,  for 


A  NIGHTINGALE  IN  A  CHEERY-TREE   115 

the  time,  alone  in  the  crowd — nearly  all  waiting  and 
expectant — when  the  first  words  of  the  song,  in  the 
singer's  matchless  voice,  rang  out  into  the  room. 

Penelope  had  been  very  far  from  expecting  to 
recognise  the  words,  yet,  as  it  proved,  she  did  so,  and 
to  her  sorrow. 

Once,  early  in  the  previous  summer,  Penelope  had 
been  the  first  to  discover  a  nightingale  singing  in  a 
wild  cherry-tree,  and  not  in  that  bird's  traditional  hour 
of  night,  but  in  the  broadest  daylight,  during  one  of 
her  walks  with  the  Poet  in  search  of  the  Beautiful. 
She  had  been  very  proud  to  be  the  first  to  notice  the 
nightingale,  but  its  unlooked-for  presence  was  not  the 
only  thing  touching  the  unusual,  which  marked  that 
afternoon  in  her  memory. 

For  there  the  Poet,  beneath  the  wild  cherry-tree, 
impelled  by  some  mad  mood,  or  perhaps  ambitious  to 
outvie  the  nightingale,  had  kissed  Penelope  for  the  first 
and  only  time  during  their  friendship.  Penelope  had 
chidden  him  with  becoming  severity,  but  she  had  never 
convinced  him  as  to  the  sincerity  of  the  displeasure  she 
professed.  Rather  he  had  remained  utterly  unre- 
pentant, and  had  not  failed,  on  his  next  visit,  to  recite 
to  her  the  verses  he  had  dedicated  to  the  occasion. 

Anticipating  the  popular  taste,  she  had  been  genuinely 
pleased  with  them.  "  For  once  I  know  what  you  are 
talking  about,"  she  said. 

"  So  you  do  ! "  laughed  the  Poet,  again  expressing  his 
views  that  she  had  not  been  without  pleasure  in  the 
kiss  either.  This  Penelope  still  denied ;  but  she 
softened  her  denial,  not  only  with  her  delightful 
laugh,  but  by  accepting  a  copy  of  the  verses. 


116  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

"  You  ought  to  have  them,  for  they  are  yours,"  the 
Poet  had  said,  with  a  look  to  add  meaning  to  his 
words. 

Yet  he  had  not  scrupled,  and  without  a  word  to  her, 
to  blazon  them  forth  through  the  medium  of  music 
and  singing  to  any  one  who  would  listen.  To  Penelope, 
for  all  her  laughter,  they  had  been  sacred.  As  the 
incident  out  of  which  they  had  sprung  had  been — 
and  was. 

This  hurt  her  most,  in  that  it  hurt  her  ideal  of  him, 
and  because  her  unwelcome  awakening  to  this  flaw  in 
him  followed  so  quickly  on  her  great  relief,  it  came 
with  the  greater  shock.  Only  to-night  she  had 
almost  thrown  herself  (she  made  the  exaggeration  with 
heightened  colour,  though  she  made  it  to  herself), 
at  this  Poet,  who  understood  the  poet's  chosen  subject 
of  love  so  ill  as  to  cheapen  it  like  this. 

Later,  Penelope  sobbed  herself  to  sleep,  for  the 
first  time  perhaps,  in  all  her  life.  She  had  just  set 
the  man  she  loved  on  a  pedestal  higher  than  anything 
she  had  dreamed  of  before,  only  that  he  might  fall 
from  it  headlong. 

No,  she  could  never  marry  him  now,  she  decided, 
solemnly  and  with  tears.  She,  who  had  laughed  at 
his  poetry  so  often  as  a  thing  altogether  romantic  and 
beyond  her  ken,  must  give  him  up  because  he  was 
not  true  to  its  teaching.  Yet  she  saw  no  humour  in 
the  situation. 

Instead,  she  found  that  she  did  understand  some- 
thing of  the  poetical  altitude  after  all ;  understood  at 
least  the  respect  due  to  it.  "  And  if  he  fails  in  that, 
which  should  be  the  dearest  thing  to  him,  what  will 


A  NIGHTINGALE  IN  A  CHERRY-TREE    117 

he  not  fail  in  ? "  she  urged.  She  made  no  allowance 
for  the  eager  seizing  on  all  appropriate  "copy"  to 
press  it  to  its  utmost  uses,  which  makes  the  Divine 
Spark  of  practical  value  to  most  poets.  Her  lay  mind 
preferred  the  silence  of  nightingale — or  poet — to  their 
sweetest  songs,  sung  out  of  time. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  PBOPHECY  OF  THE  POET 

"IT  is  simply  lovely,"  said  Lady  Margery.  "Just 
charming.  He  is  a  dear!  Browning  himself  could 
not  have  written  it  better." 

"Which  means,  in  plain  English,"  said  Charlie 
Mason,  "that  it's  about  as  intelligible  as  Greek  to 
you." 

For  the  benefit  of  those  in  doubt,  it  would  perhaps 
be  better  to  explain  that  Lady  Margery  held  a  copy 
of  the  Mayfair  in  her  hand,  open  at  the  page  con- 
taining the  very  last  effusion  from  the  pen  of  the 
Hon.  Laurence  Albert  Laister. 

"  I  won't  have  my  friends  run  down,"  said  she,  in 
answer  to  Charlie,  "or  their  works.  It's  not  polite 
of  you  at  all — now,  is  it  ?  And  it's  exposing  yourself 
into  the  bargain,  for  I  don't  believe  you  know  a  word 
about  it  yourself !  There — read  it." 

She  held  the  paper  out  to  him,  but  Charlie  Mason 
did  not  relieve  her  of  it. 

"  Lord  forbid ! "  he  said. 

"  Oh ! "  cried  My  Lady.  "  Oh !  I  am  ashamed.  You 
are  shocking ! "  Though  her  tone  was  one  of  un- 
disguised reproof,  her  eyes  dwelt  with  a  kindly  smile 
on  young  Charlie's  face.  And  of  such  smiles  it  was 

118 


THE   PEOPHECY   OF  THE  POET        119 

this  lucky  youth's  fate  to  get  his  full  share  and 
over. 

"You  really  must  be  punished;  I  can't  have  you 
going  about  as  if  you  were  not  in  disgrace,"  she  said. 
"  I  know  what !  I'll  read  it  to  you." 

Which  she  commenced  to  do,  forthwith. 

"  It  is  called  '  The  Great  Bronze  Vase/  you  know," 
My  Lady  began  with  a  becoming  flourish.  "  It's  not 
very  easy  reading,"  she  interpolated,  having  got  so 
far. 

"  Pray  don't  apologise,"  said  Charlie  Mason  with 
some  haughtiness,  possibly  assumed. 

"  And  there  are  some  rather  long  words." 

"No  skipping  then!"  said  he,  with  quite  genuine 
earnestness. 

My  Lady  only  looked  her  contempt,  and  began  on 
the  poem. 

" '  O  monstrous  Urn  of  Bronze,  whose  knotty  sides 
Awake  in  noble  minds  a  wild  desire.' 

("  Yes,  that  extra  thousand  pounds  did  strike  me  as 
a  little  wild — afterwards.) 

" '  How  happy  art  thou  !     Seeing  that  thy  form 
Hath  earned  the  warmest  praise  of  titled  Grace. 
Thy  fate  is  one  indeed  to  be  desired, 
When  humble  singers  cannot  claim  a  smile.'" 

"  Humble,  I  like  that ! " 

" '  But  yet,  ah  me  !  in  this  englotted  world 
The  grosser  beauty  wins  the  first  applause  I 
While  that  possessing  subtler  features  far 
Is  destined  to  exist  and  fade  and  die 
And  sink  into  oblivion  with  tears.' 


120  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

"Fancy  Mr  Laister!" 

" '  Yet  them,  0  Vase,  art  still  to  be  admired ' 

"Doesn't  that  strike  you  as  a  rather  jealous  way  of 
putting  it  ? "  My  Lady  broke  off  to  ask. 

"  It  may  be  how  he  felt,"  Charlie  Mason  answered. 

"  Of  a  vase  too  !  How  childish  it  seems,  doesn't  it  ? 
But,  however — 

"  *  The  very  fact  that  thou  hast  attributes, 
That  rouse  deep  longings  in  the  noble  mind 
Of  one  so  noble  as  that  Venus  star ' 

"Oh!"  from  My  Lady,  and  a  face  that  was  quite 
indescribable. 

" '  That  in  the  firmament  of  London  shines, 
So  brightly  and  so  fair,  is  quite  enough 
For  him,  who  lightly  digitates  the  strings 
Of  his  poor  heart  to  sing  these  notes,  to  lay 
This  humble  homage  at  thy  massy  base 
And  feel  that  in  the  act  of  doing  so  — * 

"  Now  ! "  looking  up,  "  you  don't  seem  paying  very 
much  attention,  so  perhaps  I  won't  finish  it  after  all" 

"  It  only  costs  a  shilling,"  said  Charlie  Mason  with 
meaning.  "  I  think  I  can  manage  that." 

"Of  course,"  answered  My  Lady,  but  still  doubt- 
fully. "  Do  you  wish  me  to  finish  it  then  ? "  she  went 
on,  brightening  up. 

"  Most  certainly." 

"Well,  my  labour  hasn't  been  quite  wasted  then, 
and  it's  nothing 

" '  And  feel  that  in  the  act  of  doing  so 
He  is  admiring  that  which  she  admires, 
And,  in  the  mutual  admiration,  finds 
A  chord  of  sympathy  between  their  souls.1 


THE  PEOPHECY  OF  THE  POET    121 

"  Now,  Mr  Mason,  what  do  you  think  of  that  ?  Don't 
you  consider  it  justifies  my  praise  ? " 

"I  think,"  said  young  Charlie  peevishly,  "that  it 
quite  accounts  for  it." 

"  And  isn't  that  the  same  thing  ? " 

"  Well,  no,  not  quite,  to  my  way  of  thinking." 

"I  don't  like  my  friends  to  have  such  thoughts," 
said  Lady  Margery,  with  a  just  sufficiently  defined 
emphasis  and  that  look  of  waiting  to  be  taken  back 
to  favour,  that  had  done  more  than  anything  else  to 
make  her  one  of  the  most  sought  after  women  in 
London. 

"  No  one  would — think  things — but  a  fool,"  stammered 
young  Charlie.  Then  he  met  the  surprise,  tempered 
with  something  that  made  them  twinkle,  in  My  Lady's 
eyes.  "  I  don't  mean  that,  of  course,"  he  said,  resuming 
all  his  usual  manner.  "  I  mean  I  wish  /  could  write 
poetry." 

"Do  you?"  questioned  Lady  Margery.  "No,  T  do 
not  think  you  do,  really.  I  am  very  fond  of  poetry,  and 
you  must  never  tell  any  one,  but  I  think  I  like  prose 
best  as  a  rule.  Easy  reading  prose,  with  funny  bits  in 
it,  you  know." 

She  still  looked  at  Mr  Charlie  Mason  as  she  spoke, 
and  her  thoughts  seemed  to  overflow  her  words  and 
give  them  wider  meanings,  at  least  so  it  pleased  that 
gentleman  to  tell  himself  in  the  silence  that  ensued, 
while  My  Lady  turned  her  eyes  in  another  direction, 
perhaps  that  they  might  gain  steadiness. 

"  Your  big  party  is  to-morrow,  isn't  it  ? "  said  Charlie 
after  a  pause,  not  so  much  to  confirm  his  memory  as  to 
ensure  a  variation  of  topic. 


122  THE  POET  AND   PENELOPE 

"  Yes  it  is,"  said  Lady  Margery,  pleasurable  anticipa- 
tion showing  itself  at  once  in  her  changeable  face,  it 
not  being  My  Lady's  way  at  all  to  assume  ignorance  of 
her  own  powers,  as  a  hostess  or  in  any  other  capacity. 

Charlie  Mason  was  never  tired  of  studying  her  face 
with  its  varying  expressions,  and  he  was  thinking 
more  of  her  looks  a  great  deal  than  his  own  words,  as 
he  put  his  next  question. 

"  Isn't  it  rather  an  extraordinary  coincidence  that  you 
and  the  Duchess  should  be  entertaining  the  same  night?" 

"It  is  likely  to  be  extremely  annoying,"  said  My 
Lady. 

"  But  I  should  hardly  think "  began  Charlie. 

The  door  was  opening.  The  conversation  was 
threatened  with  an  immediate  interruption.  My  Lady 
was  forced  to  a  conclusion. 

"To  the  Duchess,  you  know!"  she  said  with  yet 
another  dazzling  smile  at  Charlie  before  she  turned  to 
greet  the  newcomers. 

They  were  John  Huddleston  Jones  and  Laurence 
Albert  Laister,  the  Poet.  A  somewhat  strangely 
assorted  pair,  and  yet  the  best  of  friends. 

Lady  Margery  let  her  laughing  eyes  rest  dutifully 
on  her  husband's  face  for  the  space  of  a  second,  then 
she  gave  her  hand  to  the  Poet. 

"  Mr  Laister,"  she  said,  "  it  is  simply  delightful.  It 
was  sweet  of  you.  I  am  perfectly  charmed." 

"  It  is  awfully  good  of  you  to  say  so,  I  am  sure,"  he 
said.  "  But  if  you  will  consider  the  subject " 

Lady  Margery  laughed  him  to  silence. 

"  I  have  been  reading  it  to  Mr  Mason,"  she  explained. 
"  And  it  stirred  him  to  the  wildest  aspirations.  It  has 
given  us  both  the  greatest  pleasure." 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  THE  POET        123 

Charlie  Mason  did  not  gainsay  her.  It  was  true  for 
him,  although  his  pleasure  had  depended  but  slightly 
on  the  quality  of  the  poem. 

"  What's  it  all  about  then  ?  Tell  us  the  subject, 
Margery,"  John  Huddleston  Jones  interposed  in  those 
masterful  tones  which  were  his  by  nature.  "No,"  as 
his  wife  held  the  paper  out  in  his  direction.  "  Laister 
will  excuse  my  reading  it."  He  smiled.  Miss  Eunice 
had  not  inherited  from  him  all  her  solemnness. 

"It  is  about  the  Great  Bronze  Vase  I  bought,  you 
know,  John.  I  can't  think  why  it  hasn't  arrived 
though ;  I  simply  must  have  it  for  to-morrow.  It  is 
such  a  beauty !  And  Mr  Laister's  poem,"  with  pretty 
graciousness,  "  is  more  than  worthy  of  it." 

"  I've  a  rather  funny  thing  to  tell  you  by  the  way," 
the  Poet  said.  "  I  was  in  the  Park  yesterday  when  the 
Duchess  of  Pentyre  was  driving  there,  and  Her  Grace 
insisted  on  my  driving  with  her,  while  she  told  me  her 
opinion  of  my  little  poem." 

"  Which  was  perhaps  not  quite  the  same  as  mine  ? " 
smiled  Lady  Margery. 

"  That  is  the  extraordinary  part,"  said  the  writer  of 
poems.  "  It  was  the  very  same  as  yours,  only,  if  I  may 
say  it,  rather  more  so." 

"  You  don't  mean,  surely ? "  began  My  Lady. 

"Undoubtedly,  that  is  what  it  appeared.  The 
Duchess  had  gone  the  length  of  appropriating  the 
poem.  It  seemed  almost  as  if  she,  too,  must  be  the 
possessor  of  a  unique  bronze  vase  of  immense  size — 
well,  in  fact,  the  same  vase ! " 

"  That,"  said  My  Lady — she  seemed  put  out  in  spite 
of  the  absurdity  of  the  thing — "  is  quite  ridiculous,  you 
know.  There  isn't  another  vase  in  existence  like  it. 


124  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

The  shopkeeper  told  me  so,  more  than  once,  and  he 
never  would  have  dared  to  do  so  if  it  hadn't  been  the 
truth." 

"  Why,  of  course,"  said  the  Poet  diplomatically ;  "  it 
is  the  ridiculousness  of  the  affair  that  constituted  its — 
its  funniness."  (Yet  he  had  often  failed  to  find  any 
amusement  connected  with  the  vase,  as  Penelope  could 
certify).  "The  Duchess  has  some  vase  she  fancies 
answers  the  description  in  the  poem,  and  she  credits 
me  with — well,  more  than  I  deserve." 

He  looked  round  as  if  expecting  some  one  to  speak. 
No  one  did.  (Unless  you  count  a  deep  "Ho!  Ho! 
Margery ! "  from  John  Huddleston  Jones). 

"  It  would  be  a  thing  to  laugh  over  ever  more,"  said 
he,  dipping  with  a  poet's  license  into  the  realms  of 
imagination,  "if  to-morrow,  at  the  two  parties,  these 
two  vases,  which  it  now  seems  we  are  to  be  shown, 
instead  of  the  one  we  have  been  so  long  expecting, 
should  prove  to  be  one  and  the  same ! " 

"  Oh ! "  said  My  Lady.  "  If  you  are  going  to  turn 

prophet ! "  From  her  tone  it  seemed  almost  as  if 

the  last  word  should  have  been  spelt  disagreeable. 

"Let  us  hope,"  put  in  Charlie  Mason  quickly,  it 
certainly  being  his  turn  to  speak,  "  that  he  will  hit  as 
wide  of  the  mark  as  they  generally  do." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  FULFILMENT   OF  THE  PROPHECY 

THE  two  receptions  given  simultaneously  (but  that  was 
accidental)  by  Her  Grace  the  Duchess  of  Pentyre,  in 
Eaton  Square,  and  Lady  Margery  Huddleston  Jones  in 
Park  Lane,  which  were  to  electrify  Society,  and  did,  in 
fact,  create  a  not  inconsiderable  stir,  were  things  of  the 
past.  That  day,  as  all  days  must — give  them  time — 
had  come  and  gone. 

Every  one  with  any  possible  claim  to  social  import- 
ance had  been  present  at  one,  if  not  both,  of  the 
functions.  Ample  material  for  conversation  had  been 
provided  for  a  week  at  least,  and  the  papers,  big  and 
small,  reeked  of  diamonds. 

Rank  and  Beauty,  Wealth  and  Talent,  had  thronged 
in  the  splendid  reception-rooms  of  the  Duchess.  If 
they  thronged  a  little  closer  and  stayed  a  little  longer, 
in  the  equally  beautiful  and  rather  more  comfortable 
abode  of  Lady  Margery,  at  least  no  one  would  have 
cared  to  say  so — to  the  Duchess. 

All  those  who  went  first  to  Lady  Margery's  had  their 
attention  drawn  to  a  magnificent  bronze  vase,  set  con- 
spicuously where  every  one  might  see  it.  They  heard 
their  pretty  little  hostess  telling  her  modified  version  of 
how  it  came  to  be  hers,  and  so  hearing  they  understood 


126 


126  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

to  the  full  the  appropriateness  of  Laurence  A.  Laister's 
latest  poem  in  the  Mayfair.  A  good  many  even  told 
him  so,  in  the  course  of  the  evening,  and  as  under- 
standing is  an  honour  not  always  accorded  to  a  poet 
during  his  lifetime,  he  received  it  smiling. 

A  select  few — they  were  generally  men  known  for 
their  good  looks,  or  in  some  way  especially  interesting — 
had  been  in  the  secret,  and  had  come,  among  other 
reasons,  purposely  to  see  the  vase.  Others  knitted 
their  foreheads,  troubled  by  a  more  or  less  vague  idea 
that  the  vase  was  to  have  been  at  the  Duchess'.  "  How 
could  such  a  mistake  have  arisen  ? "  said  they  to  them- 
selves. Generally,  they  said  nothing  about  it  out  loud ; 
very  few,  even  in  these  days  of  outspoken  self-analysis, 
would  care  to  own  voluntarily  to  having  mixed  the 
confidences  of  their  most  intimate  friends. 

But  perhaps  the  larger  number  of  the  guests  reversed 
this  order  of  procedure,  and  took  the  Duchess'  first, 
and  My  Lady's  breath  away  afterwards.  "  Why,"  said 
they,  "  so  you  have  been  caught  with  the  vase  craze  too, 
then  !  Exactly  like  the  Duchess',  isn't  it  ?  What  a 

capital "  —  or  "  strange  idea  ! "  The  wording 

indicating  the  sex  of  the  speaker. 

In  spite  of  her  general  quickness,  however,  it  did  not 
become  thoroughly  clear  to  Lady  Margery  until  quite  a 
late  hour  that  so  was  the  Poet's  prophecy  fulfilled,  and 
that  the  vase,  the  Great  Bronze  Vase,  had  developed  in 
some  wonderful,  unaccountable  manner  into  a  pair ! 

To  the  Duchess  the  knowledge  came  even  later,  but 
she  found  it  no  more  to  her  taste,  to  all  appearance, 
when  she  did  arrive  at  a  full  understanding.  And 
being  a  Duchess,  she  did  not  feel  entirely  bound  to 
keep  all  her  annoyance  until  every  one  had  departed. 


THE  FULFILMENT  OF  THE  PEOPHECY    127 

She  saved  a  good  deal  though,  as  her  family  could 
testify. 

Lord  Colbeck,  especially,  came  in  for  his  full  share. 
And  it  was  not  until  considerably  later  that  he  arrived 
at  a  knowledge  of  what  lay  behind  the  Duchess' 
wrath,  which  would  undoubtedly  have  made  it  easier  to 
bear. 

For  the  Duchess  was  only  waiting,  as  has  been  said, 
for  some  such  chance  as  this  to  break,  on  her  son's 
behalf,  the  "  Huddleston  Jones  connection."  And  any- 
thing so  fitly  opportune,  so  adequate  to  her  needs,  had 
hardly  entered  her  most  hopeful  dream.  Only,  so 
rapidly  had  her  line  of  action  to  be  determined,  that  a 
less  brilliant  woman  (as  she,  well — very  nearly — 
expressed  it  later)  might  easily  have  missed  it  after  all, 
and  it  was  her  greatest  drawback  to  perfect  self-con- 
gratulation that  secrecy  was  plainly  necessary  to  the 
perfecting  of  her  plan  while  her  plan  was  working. 
She  would  have  given  much  to  let  Lord  Colbeck  into 
her  confidence,  but  her  trust  in  him  did  not  permit  it. 
He  would  certainly  have  spoilt  her  power  of  acting, 
which  she  found  quite  surprising,  if  nothing  worse.  And 
so  he  was  left  to  deplore  the  evil  which  was  to 
blossom  into  unknown  good,  in  very  human  fashion. 

And  since,  by  way  of  lightening  his  own  load,  he 
subsequently  let  none  of  his  friends  off  a  full  hearing  of 
the  whole  affair,  the  scene  that  ensued  between  Her 
Grace  the  Duchess  of  Pentyre  and  her  eldest  son, 
became  in  time  common  property. 

'•You,  I  suppose — you  have  known  all  along  of 
this  trick ! "  Those  who,  knowing  the  Duchess,  heard 
her  words  from  Lord  Colbeck's  lips,  could  well  imagine 
for  themselves  how  there  had  rung  in  her  withering 


128  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

tones  all  the  force  that  countless  generations  of  titled 
ancestors  alone  can  give. 

It  was  well  known  that  she  had  always  accepted 
Miss  Eunice — when  the  world  was  looking  on — as  the 
bride  she  would  have  chosen  for  her  son  if  he  had  been 
in  possession  of  unlimited  wealth — for  she  knew  what 
became  her. 

As  Lord  Colbeck's  friends  gathered  from  what 
he  let  fall,  she  did  not  always  feel  herself  quite  so 
bound  in  her  own  home.  (Who  does,  you  know  ?) 

"It  wasn't  the  least  good  my  telling  her  that  I 
hadn't  heard  a  word,"  Lord  Colbeck  would  say  in 
relating  how  he  had  been  forced  to  take  up  the  cudgels 
for  the  absent  ones.  And  he  gave  it  out  to  those 
chosen  spirits  as  a  special  reason  that  he  felt  himself 
aggrieved  in  being  so  addressed,  that  he  would  just  as 
soon  have  had  the  money  in  his  own  right. 

"  For  I  hadn't  been  told  anything,"  he  declared  again 
and  again.  "  It's  an  extraordinary  set-out.  I  don't  in 
the  least  understand  how  it's  come  about." 

And  none  of  his  friends  were  able  to  help  him  to  a 
satisfactory  explanation. 

The  Duchess,  judging  from  what  she  said,  considered 
it  an  arrant  piece  of  impudence,  and  she  was  evidently 
fast  exceeding  the  point  when  expressions  are  chosen 
with  care.  So  perhaps  there  was  an  excuse  for  Lord 
Colbeck,  that,  resenting  his  position,  he  caught  much  of 
this  warmth  ;  at  any  rate  so  he  always  maintained. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said  to  Charlie  Mason,  who,  in 
particular,  he  favoured  with  a  detailed  account,  "  there 
was  a  great  commotion  and  fuss  going  on,  all  about 
these  precious  vases,  but  for  my  own  part  I  didn't  see 
that  it  was  of  much  consequence,  and  don't  now — the 


THE  FULFILMENT  OF  THE  PKOPHECY    129 

more  the  merrier.  Though  I  must  confess  that  when  I 
said  that  to  the  mater  I  didn't  quite  realise  the  effect 
it  would  have." 

"I  suppose,"  said  Charlie,  "the  person  who  finally 
succeeds  in  firing  a  pile,  that  has  been  specially 
prepared,  is  generally  as  surprised  as  any  one  else 
at  his  own  success.  Only  sometimes  the  blaze  is  worth 
it." 

"  Blaze  is  right ! "  said  Lord  Colbeck,  but  with  the  air 
of  one  who  had  paid  a  price  he  regretted.  And  as  he 
further  unfolded  his  case,  from  his  special  point  of 
view,  Charlie  could  not  altogether  help  agreeing  with 
him. 

For  it  was  at  this  precise  point,  as  her  son  was 
willing  to  swear,  and  with  no  other  warning,  that  the 
Duchess  turned  on  Lord  Colbeck,  white  with  rage,  and 
with  this  scandal  of  the  vases  as  her  alleged  motive, 
made  known  her  determination,  in  the  plainest  language, 
to  renounce  the  whole  connection.  To  cut  Lady 
Margery  from  the  list  of  her  acquaintances,  to  dis- 
countenance in  every  way  his  marriage  with  her  step- 
daughter Eunice.  (Here  Charlie  spared  a  smile  for  the 
thought  of  how,  to  the  "Duchess,  she  had  never  been  the 
daughter  of  plain  John  Huddleston  Jones.)  To  with- 
draw her  consent  and  the  Duke's.  ("And  whatever 
you  may  think,  old  chap,"  explained  Lord  Colbeck, 
"  she  is  not  reckoning  without  her  host  there.")  And 
to  give,  moreover,  her  candid  opinion  of  the  affair  to 
any  one  whom  it  might  concern. 

"When  it  came  to  that,"  confessed  Lord  Colbeck, 
"  you  may  believe  me,  though  perhaps  it  was  for  the 
first  time  in  my  life,  I  could  find  nothing  to  say  in 
answer." 


130  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

And  Charlie  understood  that  whatever  he  might 
have  said,  he  would  not  have  expected  to  alter  her 
mind.  To  add  which  is  due  to  the  reputation  of  the 
Duchess. 

The  Duchess,  it  appeared,  went  over  the  whole 
ground  several  times.  She  left  no  development  of 
the  situation  unexplained  or  open  to  doubt.  Then 
she  recollected  the  hour,  and  swept  out  of  the  room. 
"  Leaving  me,"  owned  Lord  Colbeck,  "  feeling  very 
much  as  I  can  remember  to  have  felt  more  than 
once  in  my  Eton  days,  and  certainly  not  any  bigger. 
For  if  ever  a  man  was  up  a  tree,  I'm  the  man ! " 

He  had  set  himself  resolutely  to  think  over  his 
position,  and  gained  at  least  no  comfort  by  doing  so. 
Nor  in  this  did  he  neglect  the  counsel  of  1m  friends. 
Yet  there,  too,  the  result  was  not  encouraging. 

How  was  he  to  explain,  he  questioned,  to  his  bride- 
elect  and  her  father,  that,  in  obedience  to  his  mother's 
bidding,  he  was  now  obliged  to  withdraw  from  his 
engagement?  The  thing  was  absurd — impossible. 

What,  to  begin  with,  would  John  Huddlestou  Jones, 
the  active-brained,  masterful  millionaire,  say  to  such 
an  attitude  ? 

(What  Lord  Colbeck  asked  of  himself  alone  was  how 
could  he  meet  the  expression  any  hint  of  such  an 
intention  would  call  forth  in  Miss  Eunice's  candid 
and  loving  eyes  ?  And  again  he  said  "  absurd — 
impossible.") 

And,  on  the  other  hand,  he  argued,  what  would 
bright  Lady  Margery  say  to  his  marriage  with  her 
stepdaughter,  when  that  marriage  was  deprived  of 
the  support,  socially  speaking  particularly,  of  his 
mother,  the  Duchess? 


THE  FULFILMENT  OF  THE  PEOPHECY    131 

That  she  would,  in  such  a  case,  snap  her  pretty 
fingers  at  a  whole  army  of  dukes  and  duchesses,  losing 
nothing  at  all  herself  by  doing  so,  was  plain  to  him 
and  to  all  those  whose  attention  he  attracted  to  the 
case. 

And  that  Miss  Eunice  would  take  any  side  against 
her,  he  could  not,  he  confessed,  bring  himself  to  believe 
at  all. 

He  owned  frankly  to  having  gone  up  to  bed  in  a 
state  of  red-hot  rage. 

It  was  Charlie  Mason  who  suggested,  being  at  his 
wits'  end  by  this  time,  that  an  application  to  the  Duke 
might  after  all  be  of  some  service. 

But  Lord  Colbeck  laughed  the  idea  to  scorn.  "I 
tried  it,"  said  he,  "that  very  night.  I  was,  in  fact, 
a  bit  excited,  or  I  might  have  known  how  little  good 
it  would  be.  I  met  him  in  a  corridor,  journeying  to 
his  well-earned  rest,  poor  old  Dad,  and  I  asked  him  to 
consider  how  I'm  placed  by  all  this." 

"What  did  he  say  then?"  asked  Charlie.  Having 
started  the  idea  he  felt  bound  to  go  on  with  it. 

"  He  referred  me  to  the  mater,"  said  Lord  Colbeck, 
with  a  twinkle  for  the  humorousness  of  the  situation 
in  his  eye.  "  I  pressed  him  to  hear  me,  but  I  could 
get  nothing  out  of  him  except  a  time-worn  hint  that  I 
should  do  better  to  keep  within  my  income." 

And  although  the  Duke  could  not  be  said  to  have 
set  him  the  example,  both  Lord  Colbeck  and  those  who 
heard  him  appreciated  the  remark  as  reaching  the  root 
of  the  matter. 

Nor  were  the  Duchess  and  Lord  Colbeck  the  only 
people  the  affair  of  the  vases  (they  could  not,  as  My 
Lady  said,  as  though  it  vexed  her,  be  even  called  the 


132  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

rival  vases,  since  they  were  just  the  same)  had  raised 
to  a  pitch  of  intense  excitement 

Lady  Margery  had  much  to  say,  and  her  own  edition 
of  the  story,  of  course. 

Perhaps  the  Poet  was  as  near  congratulating  him- 
self as  any  one,  and  that  only  in  virtue  of  his  prop- 
hecy. Yet  even  to  his  exultant  ears  came  a  plaint 
from  My  Lady. 

"  To  think  that,  after  all,  she  had  a  sort  of  right  to 
my  poem  ! "  she  said  miserably. 

Thereby  moving  to  compunction  our  most  modern  of 
poets. 


CHAPTEE  XIX 

THE  TBEK  OF  DIFFICULTY 

THE  allegorical  Tree  of  Difficulty  up  which  Lord 
Colbeck  considered  himself  to  be  at  this  period,  and 
not  without  cause,  seemed  no  more  desirable  a  resting- 
place  when  viewed  in  the  light  of  maturer  reflection. 
And  to  his  credit  it  must  be  admitted  that  never  for 
more  than  a  moment  at  a  time,  and  with  stern  repent- 
ance to  follow,  did  he  allow  the  dear  thought  of 
Penelope  to  temper  his  objection  to  the  break — such  a 
break  at  any  rate,  with  Miss  Eunice. 

Now  it  was  not  Lord  Colbeck's  practice  at  all,  as  has 
been  said,  to  keep  his  grievances  to  himself  when  it 
was  possible  to  air  them.  No  one  in  that  particular 
could  accuse  him  of  selfishness. 

To  the  Poet,  with  whom  he  came  in  contact  on  the 
way  to  the  Club,  he  was  more  than  generous.  And  for 
the  hundredth  time  that  highly-strung  individual 
wished  himself  somewhat  less  in  request  as  a  confidant 
of  the  slaves  of  the  vases. 

As  a  possible  title,  however,  he  made  a  mental  note 
of  it,  with  his  usual  unpoetical  eye  to  business. 

Lord  Colbeck,  in  his  way,  outdid  his  mother  the 
Duchess  in  the  fulness  of  detail  with  which  he 
explained  the  present  situation  in  all  its  bearings. 

183 


134  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

It  was  a  case  of  practice  making  perfect. 

He  left  nothing  at  all  to  the  Poet's  imagination,  as 
far  at  any  rate  as  His  Lordship  himself  was  affected 
by  this  last  sudden  turn  of  affairs.  And  he  made 
no  allowance,  of  course,  for  the  Poet's  private  know- 
ledge, which  alone  was  more  than  he  cared  for. 

"  If  ever  a  man  was  up  a  tree,"  said  Lord  Colbeck, 
repeating  again  what  was  fast  becoming  a  formula  with 
him,  "  I'm  the  man.  And  in  a  beastly  mess  besides." 

The  Poet  nodded,  feelingly,  as  became  a  writer  of 
verse  and  fantasy. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "it  is  to  be  deplored — oh  yes, 
certainly."  He  was  thinking  as  much  as  anything  of 
his  own  last  poem  in  the  May/air.  And  then  it  was 
not  likely  that  Lord  Colbeck's  would  be  the  only  side 
of  the  question  he  would  be  called  upon  to  hear. 

"My  mother  is  furious,"  said  Lord  Colbeck.  "My 
father  " — using  a  Duke-like  simile — "  gives  her  her  head 
entirely.  No  quarter  is  to  be  given  to  me,  or  rather  to 
Miss  Huddleston  Jones.  If  the  mater  herself  would 
tackle  John  Huddleston  Jones  now" — with  a  sudden 
smile  by  way  of  parenthesis — "  I  shouldn't  mind  so 
much,  and  I — well  it's  no  good  trying  to  disguise 
obvious  facts,  for  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  diffi- 
culties of  every  kind  beset  me,  and  this  is  about  the  last 
straw.  All  because  a  pair  of  silly  women  mnst  make 
a  deadly  mystery  about  two  frightful  vases.  As  if  they 
were  the  only  vases  in  London ! " 

Lord  Colbeck  had  nothing  really  to  be  ashamed  of  in 
his  appreciation  of  beauty,  bnt  there  are  times  in  the 
lives  of  even  the  best  of  men  when  they  feel  like  that. 

"The  whole  case  seems  to  me  to  be  in  that  nut- 
shell," said  the  Poet,  taking  up  the  parable,  since  there 


THE  TKEE  OF  DIFFICULTY  135 

seemed  no  escape  from  it.  "  They  were  each  supposed 
to  be  by  the  lady  who  purchased  them — it,  you 

know  what  I  mean "  (A  poet  is  not  necessarily  a 

grammarian.)  "Supposed  to  be  the  only  vase  in 
London.  The  grand  surprise  was  when  they  found 
it  was  not  actually  so.  The  result  is  a  glorious 
muddle." 

"  It  is  so,"  assented  Lord  Colbeck.  He  had  thought 
his  friend  Laister  a  little  wanting  perhaps,  in  actual 
interest,  in  his  own  all-absorbing  case.  He  now  saw 
fit  to  exonerate  him. 

"  I  was  as  near  being  beforehand  with  the  mystery 
as  any  one,"  went  on  the  Poet.  "  The  Duchess'  interest 
in  my  poem  did  strike  me  as  being  more  than  the 
occasion,  as  I  viewed  it,  seemed  to  warrant.  Yet  even 
that  failed  to  bring  enlightenment  as,  of  course,  it  should 
have  done.  Which  proves  the  lamentable  blindness  of 
the  human  race,  if  nothing  else." 

"  Yes,"  said  Lord  Colbeck,  "  if  we  could  have  known 
beforehand  we  might  have " 

"Had  another  engagement,"  put  in  the  Poet  with 
unbecoming  levity. 

"I  really  don't  know  what  we  could  have  done 
though,"  said  Lord  Colbeck,  ignoring  the  interruption. 
"  That's  just  it,  for  you  see  as  matters  stand " 

The  Poet  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he,  at  any 
rate,  had  stood  enough. 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  day,"  he  remarked,  with  his  eyes 
on  the  one  scrap  of  blue  in  an  over-cast  sky,  and  in  a 
voice  that  rang  with  a  note  of  pleading. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  good,  old  chap,"  said  Lord  Colbeck,  "  I 
jolly  well  can't  think  of  anything  else." 

His  apparent  freedom  from   all  resentment  of  his 


136  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

friend's  artifice,  and  his  very  evident  ruefulness,  touched 
afresh  the  accessible  heart  of  the  Poet. 

"  Well — see  here,"  said  he  consolingly.  "  The  rumpus 
is  at  its  height  just  now,  but  it  can't  last  long.  There's 
not  a  sufficiently  substantial  basis  to  make  the  thing  a 
lasting  one.  It's  a  most  extraordinary  affair  from  first 
to  last,  and  I'll  own  it  baffles  me  to  know  how  it's 
come  about,  but  they'll  get  over  it,  and  things  will  be 
as  they  have  been.  The  ladies,  bless  them,  must  have 
their  little  excitements.  The  easiest  way  is  to  leave 
them  to  cool  a  bit,  and  the  most  effective.  When 
they've  had  time  to  stand  on  their  dignity,  an 
exercise  they  delight  in,  you'll  find  they're  always 
more  amenable  to  reason." 

But  Lord  Colbeck  shook  his  head.  "It's  all  very 
well  for  you,"  he  said. 

Which,  if  true,  was  yet  hard  on  the  Poet. 

The  Hon.  Laurence  Albert  Laister  let  his  own 
dignity  go  in  the  cause  of  friendship. 

"What  is  it  all  about?"  he  questioned.  "A  pair 
of  vases!  The  Duchess  has  bought  a  vase  she  con- 
siders very  beautiful "  The  Poet  was  determined 

not  to  commit  himself,  even  for  old  acquaintance  sake. 
"My  Lady  Margery  Huddleston  Jones  has  only  done 
the  same.  It  is  unfortunate,  but  not  criminal,  that 
it  should  be  the  same.  And  upon  my  word,"  said 
the  Poet,  working  himself  into  a  state  of  excusable 
irritation,  "  it  is  the  merest  trifle  to  make  a  fuss  about, 
considering  the  way  these  women  cannot  wear  a  certain 
colour,  or  a  certain  fashion,  unless  every  one  else  is 
wearing  it,  and  do  their  hair,  and  even  dye  it,  so 
that  they  may  be  in  every  detail  of  one  uniform 
pattern." 


THE  TEEE  OF  DIFFICULTY  137 

He  had  lost  sight,  as  a  poet  had  a  right  to  do 
perhaps,  of  how  very  completely  his  own  clothes  were 
a  counterpart  of  those  of  his  companion,  Lord  Colbeck, 
and  indeed,  of  all  the  male  portion  of  the  London 
world  he  laid  a  claim  to. 

Said  Lord  Colbeck.  "It  isn't  that  exactly.  Don't 
you  see — when  the  Duchess  bought  the  vase  she 
thought  it  was  the  only  one  ? " 

He  looked  at  the  Poet  to  see  if  he  was  attending. 

The  Poet,  in  his  turn,  fixed  his  gaze  on  Lord  Colbeck, 
while  preserving  a  strained  silence.  "  Why  don't  you 
tell  me  something  I  don't  know?"  was  what  his 
reproachful  eyes  seemed  to  say  on  behalf  of  his 
closed  lips. 

"Oh  I  know!"  went  on  Lord  Colbeck.  "But  you 
see  that  is  where  the  mischief  comes  in  now.  For  she 
still  affirms  that  it  was  so.  That  the  shopkeeper  told 
her  that,  at  the  time  she  bought  it,  he  had  received  no 
offers  for  the  vase  even.  Therefore,  in  getting  another 
exactly  like  it — afterwards — there  must  have  been  on 
Lady  Margery's  part  some " 

He  hesitated,  an  example  his  mother  had  not  set  him, 
but  possibly  some  remembrance  had  overcome  him  of 
My  Lady's  sweet  face,  or  of  how  often  the  Poet  was  to 
be  seen  where  My  Lady  was. 

The  Poet  gave  a  long,  low  whistle.  Something  had 
occurred  to  him  also.  The  occasion  on  which  Lady 
Margery  had  first  told  him,  as  a  suitable  subject  for  a 
poem,  of  the  purchase  of  the  vase,  and  her  laughing 
reference  to  the  time  that  purchase  had  taken.  Also 
his  own  inference,  which  she  had  certainly  not  denied, 
that  time  had  not  been  the  only  medium  used. 

"  Some  what  on  Lady  Margery's  part  ? "  he  questioned 


138  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

in  a  resolute  voice.  He  was  determined  to  know  the 
worst. 

"Double  dealing,  don't  you  know,"  confessed  Lord 
Colbeck,  feeling  himself  unable  to  go  back  now. 

"  Whew ! "  said  the  Poet  (they  were  on  the  Club 
steps),  "  I  see ;  I  see.  That  certainly  puts  it  in  a  worst 
light,  though  "  —  with  conscious  loyalty  —  "  it  still 
remains  just  as  much  of  a  mistake." 

"  I  daresay,"  said  Lord  Colbeck,  but  doubtfully.  It 
was  his  misfortune  that  he  would  just  as  soon  have 
thought  so. 

"  I  do  feel  for  the  seriousness  of  your  case  with  all 
my  heart,  my  friend,"  said  the  Poet. 

"  And  you  cannot  feel  it  at  all  as  I  do,"  responded 
Lord  Colbeck  dolefully  as  they  parted. 

Whereat  the  Poet  found,  in  an  evil  world,  some  cause 
for  thankfulness. 


CHAPTER  XX 

"IT  CANNOT  BE* 

"  OH  ! "  said  Lady  Margery.  "  How  I  wish  I  had  never 
seen  the  horrid  thing  ! " 

She,  in  company  with  the  Poet  and  Charlie  Mason, 
occupied  one  corner  of  the  big  drawing-room  in  Park 
Lane.  My  Lady  stood  up  and  faced  the  vase  where  it 
rested,  brazen  and  unabashed,  on  its  quaint  carved 
pedestal.  She  caught  up  a  piece  of  Eastern  embroidery 
from  a  neighbouring  sofa,  a  scrap  of  silk  and  needle- 
work, a  mere  atom  as  compared  with  the  monster 
ornament,  at  which  she  now  flung  it. 

"  I'm  sick  of  the  whole  thing,"  said  she.  "  Let  us  go 
into  the  next  room."  Which  they  did. 

But  subjects,  while  they  fill  your  thoughts,  are  more 
difficult  to  change  than  rooms. 

"  Now  the  Duchess "  she  began  as  soon  as  they 

were  seated,  but  the  Poet  interrupted  her. 

" '  Peace  !  Peace  !  Orestes-like,  Ibreathe  this  prayer,' " 
he  quoted,  in  good  faith  presumably,  but  it  was  too 
much  for  My  Lady. 

"  I  knew  you  wrote  poetry,"  she  said,  "  I  did  not 
know  you  had  taken  up  reciting."  And  her  tone  did 
not  make  reciting  sound  a  very  desirable  thing  to  take 
up. 

ISO 


140  THE   POET  AND   PENELOPE 

"  Save  us  ! "  laughed  Charlie  Mason,  "  or  our  friend- 
ship will  fall  to  pieces." 

Even  My  Lady  did  not  join  the  laugh.  "  That," 
she  said,  "  is  the  last  straw.  Now  Mr  Laister  is  reduced 
to  quoting — Longfellow,  was  it  ? — and  Mr  Mason  to 
making  weak  puns,  what  is  left  to  me  ? " 

"  Your  forte  is  criticism,"  said  the  Poet,  "there  can 
be  no  doubt  of  that."  His  kindliness  of  intention  just 
at  the  moment  was  open  to  considerable  doubt,  how- 
ever. 

"  It  has  caused  us  some  excitement,  and  a  topic  of 
conversation,"  said  Charlie,  who  never  loved  to  see  a 
shadow  on  My  Lady's  face.  "  So  it  cannot  be  said  to 
have  been  all  in  vain." 

"As  far  as  making  material  for  conversation  is 
concerned,"  said  the  Poet,  "  it  seems  to  me  just  now  in 
full  swing." 

My  Lady  turned  on  the  Poet  with  her  prettiest  air. 
"  Yet  surely,"  she  pleaded,  "  you  will  own  that  I  have 
had  the  most  to  put  up  with  ? " 

Put  to  him  like  that,  the  Poet  could  not  deny  it,  in 
spite  of  the  confidences  of  Lord  Colbeck. 

"  Yet  I  have  felt  aggrieved  at  the  way  in  which  things 
have  turned  out  myself,"  said  he.  "  It  will  soon  become 
a  tabooed  subject,  I  presume,  which  is  like  my  luck.  I 
have  laid  in  reams  of  paper  and  a  new  bottle  of  Blue 
Black.  My  idea  is — again — a  drama,  but  of  the  ultra- 
serious  nature.  The  last  scene  is  particularly  clear  to 
me.  The  music,  wild  and  discordant  at  first,  drops  into 
the  minor,  soft,  dreamy,  with  occasional  bursts  of  chords, 
but  ever  growing  more  distant,  to  fade  gradually  like 
the  sobs  of  a  fretting  child,  into  silence.  The  heroine 
stands  in  the  centre  of  the  stage "  he  paused  and 


"IT  CANNOT  BE"  141 

turned  to  Lady  Margery.  "  It  is  purely  imaginary,"  he 
explained. 

"  Considering  everything,"  she  assented, "  that  is  doubt- 
less just  as  well." 

The  Poet  went  on.  "  She  is  alone.  Clad  in  clinging 
draperies " 

"  Suitable  for  summer  wear  ?  "  queried  young  Charlie, 
but  no  one  heeded  him. 

"  Clad  in  clinging  draperies,  she  raises  her  gleaming 
arms  and  flings  them  round  the  vase  she  cherishes  more 
than  life  itself.  They  dare  not  wrest  it  from  her! 
No  hand  but  hers  shall  dare  to  touch  the  sacred  urn, 
that  until  so  lately  contained  the  ashes  of  her  beloved 
dead.  They  are  coming.  She  hears  the  dreaded 
footsteps.  With  a  last,  wild  cry  to  her  gods  for  help — 
for  a  moment  of  time — she  seizes  a  loose  fragment  of 
rock,  and,  lifting  it  with  superhuman  strength,  hurls  it 
at  the  great  vase,  shattering  it  at  one  blow  into  a 
hundred  pieces.  Then,  raising  her  eyes  once  to  the 
heavens  above  her,  she  falls  straight  and  stiff  across 
the  disordered  fragments,  lifeless,  at  the  moment  the 
crowd  rush  in  upon  her." 

The  Poet's  own  very  beautiful  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
space,  far  away.  He  was  thoroughly  absorbed.  His 
voice,  always  musical,  had  been  in  keeping  with  his 
eyes,  and  My  Lady  was  really  very  impressionable  on 
the  rare  occasions  when  you  caught  her  serious. 

She  had  joined  the  Poet  in  the  clouds  of  his 
creating. 

It  was  Charlie  Mason  who  helped  them  back  to 
earth. 

"  It — they — the  material  they  are  made  of  is  bronze, 
you  know,"  he  suggested. 


142  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

My  Lady  succumbed  with  a  little  laugh,  but  half- 
heartedly. The  Poet  would  have  none  of  it.  He 
stood  up,  shrugging  hie  shoulders  expressively,  as  one 
whom  details  did  not  touch.  He  walked  to  the 
window,  his  forehead  knitted  into  a  frown.  He  paid, 
in  fact,  the  usual  poetic  deference  to  common-sense. 

Yet  is  that  drama  still  unwritten. 

Young  Charlie,  to  whom  the  drama  in  any  form  did 
not  appeal,  his  ideals  being  founded  by  the  music-halls, 
and  so  rendered  more  easy  of  attainment,  sat  whistling 
a  tune— "The  Minstrel  Boy." 

Even  a  suspicion  of  discord  disturbed  Lady  Margery, 
so  it  may  be  excused  her  that  she  had  only  time 
partially  to  change  the  subject. 

"  The  Duchess  is  simply  mad,"  said  she,  with  rather 
a  wintry  smile  at  Charlie.  "I  wonder  what  she 
intends  to  do?" 

As  a  friend  of  Lord  Colbeck's  Charlie  knew  very 
well,  having  only  just  left  him,  what  the  Duchess,  to 
be  plain,  had  already  done.  And,  as  he  was  never 
slow  to  make  the  most  of  his  opportunities,  it  did  not 
take  much  pressing  to  induce  him  to  impart  his 
knowledge  to  Lady  Margery. 

And  he  so  adorned  his  recital  with  characteristic 
imitations  of  the  different  people  of  whom  he  spoke 
that,  at  the  time,  he  very  much  lessened  the  shock  to 
her.  Which  may  have  been  his  reason  for  undertak- 
ing the  task,  his  modesty  not  being  sufficient  to  stand 
in  the  way  of  his  kind  heart.  And  certainly,  in  the 
telling,  his  words  reached  the  Poet  at  the  window  but 
faintly  through  the  peals  of  her  laughter. 

Charlie  Mason's  great  gift  was  a  power  of  mimicry  ; 
he  was  better  at  that  than  even  the  Poet  at  poetry. 


"IT  CANNOT  BE"  143 

But  when,  later  on,  she  was  alone,  it  did  all  seem 
very  much  more  serious  to  Lady  Margery.  For  what 
Charlie  Mason  told  her  was  how  the  Duchess  had  spent 
that  morning  in  writing  to  her  and  giving  to  her  own 
son,  Lord  Colbeck,  her  reasons  for  so  doing. 

He,  it  seemed,  had  pleaded,  but  in  vain.  He  had 
raved — Charlie  gave  it  all — but  with  no  better  result. 
The  Duchess,  making  a  duty  of  her  obvious  wrath,  had 
refused  to  be  pacified  or  to  separate  the  scandal  of  the 
vases  from  the  scandal  that  must  ensue  if  it  came,  as 
she  vowed  it  should,  to  the  breaking-off  of  the  engage- 
ment between  Lord  Colbeck  and  Miss  Eunice. 

She  had  made  nothing  of  his  wishes,  conceded 
nothing  to  his  pride,  and  had  treated  his  honour  as  a 
gentleman  as  non-existent. 

"  It  cannot  be,  mother,"  he  had  insisted  angrily  at 
last ;  "  it  cannot  be."  Charlie  surpassed  himself  in  the 
rendering  of  this  part.  It  was  nothing  to  him  that  he 
only  had  it  second-hand.  But  the  Duchess  had  written 
her  letter  notwithstanding,  Lord  Colbeck  finding  him- 
self as  unable  to  prevent  her  as  he  was  at  a  loss  to 
determine  his  next  step  in  a  part  utterly  distasteful  to 
him. 

The  Duchess,  in  the  wording  of  her  letter,  evidently 
aimed  at  making  a  sensation  in  her  turn,  at  least  that 
is  how  it  appeared,  since  she  attributed  all  that  had 
gone  before  to  Lady  Margery.  She  had  no  cause  to 
be  disappointed.  That  it  was  not  quite  in  the  quarter 
that  she  expected  was  not  due  to  any  indistinctness  of 
wording,  but  from  circumstances  over  which  even  her 
position  as  Duchess  of  Pentyre  gave  her  no  control. 
Yet,  since  it  served  her  ends  better  than  anything 


144  THE  POET  AND   PENELOPE 

she  had  expected,  she  was  left  without  cause  for 
complaint. 

When  Lady  Margery  had  read  the  letter  through 
once  she  hung  her  pretty  head,  and  looked  up  sideways 
and  furtively  at  her  stepdaughter.  Having  read  it  a 
second  time  she  smiled.  She  was  blessed  with  so  keen 
a  sense  of  humour  that  she  could  not  always  control 
it ;  nor  could  she  help  thinking  of  Charlie.  Then  she 
smothered  the  smile  resolutely  and  handed  the  letter 
to  Miss  Eunice,  since  no  better  way  occurred  to  her. 

Eunice  read  it  with  attention  also.  It  seemed  to 
take  her  some  time  to  grasp  the  case,  but  she  took  it 
with  a  firm  hand  when  it  came  to  her. 

Her  face  was  flushed,  and  she  gave  a  very  becoming 
toss  to  her  handsome  head.  She  seemed  suddenly 
to  assume  very  grand  proportions  in  My  Lady's  eyes. 

She  came  and  laid  her  arms  about  the  neck  of  that 
surprised  young  person. 

"  You  dear  little  thing ! "  said  Miss  Eunice.  "  Do 
not  be  afraid — they  shall  not  hurt  you  for  nothing. 
I  will  take  care  of  you,  and  I  will  answer  this — at 
once.  You  dear  little  thing ! " 

She  was  kneeling  at  My  Lady's  side,  and  she  buried 
the  stately  head  at  this  juncture  in  the  soft  folds  of  her 
dress.  My  Lady's  head  was  bent  very  low  also,  or 
she  would  never  have  heard,  what  was  certainly  not 
meant  for  her  ears,  a  muffled  murmur:  "0  Colin/ 
Colin!" 

So  Lord  Colbeck  had  no  occasion  even  to  consider 
the  question  of  breaking  off  his  engagement  personally, 
or  to  further  refuse  to  consider  it,  which  is  what  he 
had  been  doing.  But  Miss  Eunice  so  worded  the 


"IT   CANNOT  BE"  145 

letter  which  brought  him  his  release,  as  to  leave  him 
very  little  present  satisfaction  after  all. 

And  that  he  felt  so  little  satisfaction  was  yet  to  the 
credit  of  Lord  Colbeck. 

While  Miss  Eunice  was  carrying  things  with  a  high 
hand,  My  Lady,  from  sheer  surprise,  remained  passive. 
"  But  oh,  John  ! "  she  said  to  her  husband  later  on,  "  I 
must  do  something.  I  will." 

He,  on  his  part,  had  a  great  deal  to  say,  but  for  all 
his  business-like  propensities  he  had  no  solution  to 
offer.  He  was  as  much  in  fault  as  all  the  rest  of  the 
world  as  to  how  the  two  vases  had  sprung  out  of  one, 
and  wherefore. 

"  All  this  is  not  in  my  line,"  he  owned  frankly  and 
with  truth. 

"  I  think,"  said  My  Lady,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  a 
photograph  of  Eunice,  "  that  there  is  just  one  way,  and 
I'll  take  it— oh  yes,  I  will." 

She  did  not  enlighten  her  husband  as  to  the  manner 
of  that  one  way.  Perhaps  she  felt  that  here  was  again 
something  out  of  his  line. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

CHRONICLES  A  VICTORY 

"  I  CANNOT  believe  you  mean  it,  Eunice,"  Lord  Colbeck 
said.  He  had  said  it  already  several  times  to  meet  the 
same  reply. 

"  But  I  do  mean  it,"  Miss  Eunice  repeated  steadily. 
"  I  do  mean  it,  indeed,  and  you  must  believe  it." 

"  I  must  abide  by  it,"  said  Lord  Colbeck,  with  reser- 
vation still  conspicuous  in  his  tones.  "  If  you  wish  it." 

"  I  do  wish  it,"  she  said,  with  bent  head  but  a  firm 
voice.  And  that  was  also  a  repetition. 

Lord  Colbeck  had  taken  the  only  course  open  to 
him,  so  he  considered.  He  had  come  straight  to  her 
on  the  receipt  of  her  letter,  to  personally  combat  the 
sentence  of  banishment  therein  laid  upon  him.  He 
had  come  as  special  pleader  on  his  own  behalf,  having 
considerable  reliance  on  his  powers  of  persuasion 
(especially  with  Miss  Eunice),  and  a  very  poor  opinion 
of  letter-writing  as  a  means  of  explanation,  even  in 
small  matters.  And  this  he  had  never  regarded  as  a 
small  matter,  although  quite  all  its  complications  had 
not  been  apparent  to  him  until  now. 

Lord  Colbeck  had  come  at  once,  and  because  he 
wanted  to  come.  Wanted  more  than  anything  to  set 

146 


CHRONICLES  A  VICTORY  147 

straight  the  tangle  in  which  he  and  Eunice  were 
both  immeshed.  And  not  only  because  his  honour 
was  involved,  but  also  because  he  honestly  believed, 
by  so  doing,  he  could  best  ensure  Miss  Eunice's 
happiness.  She  only  wanted  the  thing  explained,  he 
had  told  himself,  and  for  his  sake  she  would  soon  be 
willing  to  overlook  his  mother's  attitude.  She  had 
never  seemed  to  set  a  limit  to  what  she  would  be 
willing  to  overlook,  outside  his  own  conduct,  at  any 
rate,  for  his  sake,  and  he  had  been  unable  to  conceive 
such  a  limit  possible. 

And  if  for  a  wild  minute  or  two  the  intoxicating 
thought  of  freedom — freedom  which  might  include 
Penelope — had  lifted  him  into  what  seemed  another 
world,  it  only  occurred  on  his  way  to  Miss  Eunice, 
and  he  had  clearly  seen  through  it  all  that  it  was  not 
a  world  he  had  any  appointed  place  in.  The  thing  had 
been  offered  him,  but  in  such  a  way  as  to  preclude  his 
acceptance.  In  such  a  way,  moreover,  as  would  have 
made  acceptance  positive  pain,  rather  than  a  joy. 
He  had  a  plain  duty — to  Miss  Eunice.  If  the  duty 
had  galled  him  sometimes,  her  letter  had  for  the  time 
blotted  the  remembrance  from  his  impulsive  heart. 
He  only  now  remembered,  with  contrition,  his  one 
serious  lapse,  when  he  had  let  the  wonderful,  unex- 
plained pleasure  in  Penelope's  face  unrightfully  loosen 
his  tongue.  And  for  that,  of  which  Eunice  must 
remain  in  ignorance,  and  for  all  this  disagree  ableness 
which  had  fallen  upon  her  about  the  vases,  he  would 
redouble  his  efforts  to  keep  her  happy  in  the  future. 
He  blessed  the  simple  nature  which  took  its  happiness 
so  seriously,  and  yet  so  readily,  when  he  proffered  it. 


148  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

He  entered  her  presence  in  a  glow  of  renunciation, 
prompted  by  such  praiseworthy  motives,  designed  to 
further  such  lofty  aims,  that  its  very  pain  was  turned 
into  one  of  his  brightest  experiences.  And  at  the  first 
sight  of  her  face,  his  last  remaining  doubt  of  being 
able  to  do  all  he  wished  to  do,  died  a  natural  death. 

To  be  rudely  dragged  to  life  later.  For  that  first 
swift  look  of  gladness  she  gave  him  faded  as  quickly 
as  it  had  come,  and  it  brought  no  following. 

Lord  Colbeck  was  in  the  habit  of  remarking  that  he 
did  not  even  pretend  to  understand  the  other  sex ; 
lately,  with  a  mental  reservation  in  favour  of  Miss 
Eunice.  But  this  was  the  day  on  which  he  withdrew 
his  one  exception,  to  say  henceforward  that  he  under- 
stood no  woman — and  least  of  all  Miss  Eunice. 

He  was  allowed  to  state  his  case ;  he  was  balked  of 
no  word  of  his  elaborate  defence.  Words  came  to  him 
at  first  with  even  more  than  their  accustomed  readi- 
ness, but  they  ran  out  at  last  before  Eunice's  steadfast 
hold  of  her  single  point.  He  tried  every  argument  in 
turn ;  she  had  only  one  thing  to  say  on  her  side,  but 
it  proved  sufficient  for  her  needs.  He  tried  persuasion, 
his  natural  gifts  lying  in  that  direction,  and  having 
been  uselessly  through  it  all,  he  began  at  the  very 
beginning  once  more  and  tried  it  all  again.  By  this 
time  he  had  lost  almost  all  feeling,  except  an  eagerness 
to  win,  which  overpowered  everything  else;  even  his 
love  for  Penelope,  which  had  come  to  him  when  it  was 
too  late,  after  he  was  pledged  for  life,  his  word  given. 

The  shackles  of  civilisation  dropped  from  him  one 
by  one.  The  curtains  of  custom  were  withdrawn  ;  his 
age  had  forsaken  him.  At  that  moment  he  could 


CHRONICLES  A  VICTORY  149 

hardly  have  named  his  love,  or  told  for  a  certainty 
whether  he  loved  at  all.  He  was  a  primitive  man,  with 
a  reputation  for  conquest  to  confirm,  and  here  was  the 
quietest,  most  unassuming  woman  he  knew,  setting 
at  naught  his  supremacy,  without  losing  her  quiet- 
ness, or  even  her  accustomed  air  of  dignified  self- 
depreciation. 

A  woman  whom  he  could  have  declared  devoted  to 
him,  to  the  fullest  extent  of  a  nature  peculiarly  capable 
of  headstrong,  unreasoning  devotion. 

And  even  now,  he  could  not  believe  himself  wholly 
mistaken  in  this,  which  is  perhaps  why  reproaches 
formed  no  part  of  Lord  Colbeck's  method  of  attack. 

Silence,  however,  fell  on  him  at  last.  He  was  de- 
feated, and  there  remained  nothing  for  him  but  to  go. 
Indeed,  he  should  have  gone  long  before ;  he  was  well 
aware  of  that.  Well  aware  that  he  had  far  exceeded, 
both  in  the  length  of  his  visit  and  in  almost  all  that  he 
had  said,  the  privilege  their  recent  relations  had  given 
him.  He  decided  to  leave  at  once — and  still  lingered. 

He  looked  very  young ;  quite  a  boy.  His  smooth, 
fair  face  flushed  and  heated  ;  his  smooth,  fair  hair  a 
little  ruffled;  a  baffled,  unsatisfied  gleam  in  his  blue 
eyes.  If  he  had  not  been  so  tall  and  straight  and  well 
filled  out,  Eunice,  glancing  quickly  up  at  him,  might 
well  have  taken  him  for  a  boy  to  be  appeased  and 
petted  back  into  a  good  humour  with  the  world  and 
with  himself.  A  boy  to  whom  the  present  was  every- 
thing, the  future  merely  chance.  Possibly  some  such 
thought  prompted  her  quick  cry,  "  Oh,  you  must  go ! " 
lest  after  all  her  brave  stand  she  should  yet  be  over- 
come. 


150  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

He  got  up  at  once.  "  Good-bye,"  he  said.  "  And  I 
am  going  because  you  wish  it,  Eunice,"  he  insisted. 

"  Yes,"  said  she. 

She  rose  also,  but  she  did  not  hold  out  her  hand,  and 
he  still  understood  her  sufficiently,  at  any  rate,  to 
refrain  from  forcing  her  to  it. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said  again. 

"Good-bye,"  she  echoed,  but  he  was  not  gone  yet. 
At  the  door  a  strange  thought  came  to  him,  and  he 
turned  impulsively. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said,  "  you  are  not  doing  this  because 
you  are  jealous  of  any  one  ? " 

"  You  have  no  right  to  ask  me  such  a  thing ! "  she 
said  angrily.  It  was  the  first  angry  tone  she  had  used 
towards  him,  and  it  instantly  did  its  work. 

"Forgive  me — no,  I  had  no  right,"  she  heard  him 
say,  and  when  she  looked  next  she  was  alone. 

And  because  she  was  now  alone  it  seemed  she  was 
hardly  the  same  as  she  had  been  in  any  one  way.  She 
sank  exhausted  on  to  the  sofa,  burying  the  beautiful, 
clear-cut  face  Lord  Colbeck  had  been  forced  into 
admiring  afresh  through  it  all,  on  her  arms. 

"  My  darling !  0  my  darling ! "  she  whispered 
again  and  again.  Too  soon  her  wakeful  conscience 
would  set  the  tender  words  amongst  the  things  that 
are  forbidden.  Even  she  could  not  deny  herself  the 
comfort  of  them  yet. 

It  had  been  a  long  fight,  and  she  had  won.  Victory 
wore  more  the  air  of  a  calamity  at  present,  but  it 
brought  with  it  no  regret.  Even  the  fight  itself  had 
been  robbed  of  some  of  its  bitterness,  for  he  had  been 
fighting  too — for  her  happiness — just  as  she  had  been 


CHEONICLES   A  VICTORY  151 

striving  for  what  she  considered  necessary  for  his.  So 
the  very  strength  of  his  opposition  had  brought  her 
something  better  than  the  most  she  had  dared  to  hope 
for,  and  she  spared  no  thought  for  the  difficulties  it  had 
added  to  her  task. 

She  had  won — but  how  near  she  had  been  to  failure 
at  the  last  moment!  If  he  had  waited  then,  after 
that  keen  home-thrust,  might  she  not  have  been  the 
conquered  one  by  now  ? 

Not  that  she  was  only  jealous  of  Penelope,  but  really 
believed  that  Lord  Colbeck  loved  her.  She  had  seen 
it  for — well,  for  what  appeared  a  long  time  to  her.  So 
she  had  seized  on  this  chance  of  breaking  off  her  en- 
gagement at  least  as  eagerly  as  the  Duchess  had  seized 
on  it.  And  when  Lord  Colbeck  married  Penelope,  this 
would  be  her  recompense.  She  would  be  giving  to  the 
man  of  her  heart  his  heart's  desire. 

Miss  Eunice  was  troubled  over  many  things,  but  not 
with  any  misgiving  as  to  whether  Penelope  would 
consent  to  this  arrangement.  She  was  entirely  in- 
capable of  believing  her  lover  less  acceptable  in  other 
eyes  than  he  seemed  to  her.  She  was  indeed  just  the 
simple  woman  Lord  Colbeck  had  always  thought  her, 
only  she  had  prayed  that  strength  and  subtlety  might 
be  sent  to  her  aid,  for  this  once,  and  her  prayer  had 
been  granted. 

As  for  Lord  Colbeck  what  of  him  ?  Was  he  glad  ? 
Was  he  sorry  ?  He  would  have  been  at  a  loss  to  tell 
how  it  was  with  him. 

Truly  he  was  now  free  to  woo  where  he  willed,  but, 
for  one  thing,  he  had  not  Miss  Eunice's  faith  in  his  own 


152 

powers  of  universal  fascination.  And  then  he  had 
more  than  once  watched  Penelope  while  she  talked  to 
the  Poet.  Now  Miss  Eunice  had  made  the  mistake  of 
only  watching  Penelope  while  she  listened  to  Lord 
Colbeck.  Penelope  was  a  good  listener,  and  Miss 
Eunice  easily  deceived. 

Added  to  these  doubts,  and  they  were  not,  as  is 
known,  without  foundation,  there  was  also  the  be- 
wilderment into  which  Miss  Eunice  had  just  thrown 
him  to  be  overcome,  or  to  subside,  before  he  could 
nearly  approach  peace  of  mind.  It  almost  seemed,  too, 
as  if  he  had  never  realised  so  thoroughly  before  how 
superbly  handsome  she  could  look.  An  annoying 
realisation  to  arrive  at  now,  perhaps,  but  not  so  un- 
naturally placed  as  he  thought  it. 


CHAPTEE  XXH 

A  GUERDON  FOR  CHARLIE 

IT  was  the  next  day  brought  a  letter  to  Charlie  Mason, 
and  that  was  not  at  all  in  the  style  of  the  letter  sent 
by  the  Duchess  to  Lady  Margery,  still  less  of  the  one 
addressed  by  Miss  Eunice  to  Lord  Colbeck. 

Charlie's  letter  was  a  short  note,  on  the  thickest  of 
crested  paper,  wherein  Lady  Margery  begged  him,  if  he 
could  spare  the  time,  to  come  and  see  her  that  after- 
noon without  fail.  She  wished  very  particularly  to 
speak  to  him. 

If  he  had  been  up  to  his  neck  in  work,  Charlie  would 
still  have  considered  such  a  request  binding.  Since  he 
had  nothing  to  do  of  any  sort,  he  went  all  the  same. 

Said  My  Lady  (they  were  seated  in  the  two  most 
comfortable  chairs  available),  "  I  have  a  favour  to  ask 
you." 

"So  I  guessed,"  said    Charlie  Mason  audaciously. 

"  Has  it  anything  to  do  with ? "  he  paused. 

"Why,  yes,"  said  My  Lady,  "everything  seems  to 
have  to  do  with  the  vases  just  now." 

But  in  mentioning  them  she  showed  none  of  the  annoy- 
ance the  subject  generally  seemed  calculated  to  bring 
in  its  train.  Instead,  she  continued  to  smile  at  Charlie. 

16S 


154  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

"Don't  you  think,"  said  Charlie  Mason,  "that  the 
wisest  course  would  be  to  try  and  drop  the  subject? 
Let  it  lie  by  a  bit  and  get  forgotten,  if  it  can.  I 
don't  mean,  and  I  am  sure  you  know  it,"  with  emphasis, 
"  that  I'm  not  always  ready  to  do  anything  you " 

But  at  this  point  he  came  to  a  standstill,  recollecting, 
perhaps,  that  even  the  wisest  counsel  was  not  likely  to 
be  what  was  required  of  him. 

My  Lady  had  ceased  to  smile.  "  Any  one,"  said  she, 
with  a  touch  of  contempt,  "  will  give  you  advice,  which 
is  worth  remembering  when  you  have  quite  made  up 
your  mind.  I  have  made  up  mine." 

Then  she  suddenly  turned  to  Charlie  with  her 
sweetest  glance. 

"  But  I  want  your  help,"  said  she  simply. 

"  Not  to  carry  it  away  and  bury  it,  though  ? "  said  he. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Lady  Margery.  "To  dig  it  up 
rather.  To  get  at  the  root  of  the  matter.  To  unravel 
this  perplexing  mystery." 

"  Isn't  that,"  said  Charlie,  "  a  bit  of  a  poser  ?  I  don't 
pretend  to  any  mock  modesty,  but  it  seems  to  be  puzz- 
ling a  good  many  people  just  now,  and  I  don't  want  to 
make  them  envious  by  doing  what  they  apparently  can't. 
The  rdle  of  a  private  detective  seems  a  rather  difficult 
one  to  play ;  needs  working  up  to.  And  I  haven't  any- 
thing to  go  on  at  present,  you  know,"  he  owned. 

"  When  you  have  quite  done,"  said  My  Lady,  with  a 
not  very  successful  attempt  at  sternness.  "Perhaps 
you  will  listen  to  me  ? " 

"  With  all  the  pleasure  in  life,"  returned  Charlie, "  and 
for  as  long  as  you  like." 

He  settled  himself  for  the  purpose  with  an  expression 


A  GUEEDON  FOR  CHARLIE  155 

of  interest  which,  it  must  be  owned,  he  had  seemed  to 
lack  before. 

"  The  Willing  Instrument  is  a  good  bit  more  in  my 
line,"  he  amended  frankly. 

"Yes,"  said  My  Lady,  dimpling,  "I  have  thought 
so  too,  and  that  is  why  I  have  chosen  you  for  the 
part." 

Charlie's  very  open  countenance  showed  no  resent- 
ment. Perhaps  he  felt  the  perquisites  accruing  from 
such  a  choice  justified  even  its  motive. 

"You  will  remember,"  said  Lady  Margery.  "At 
Brighton,  I  think  it  was,  our  talking  about  the  vase  ? " 

" Once  or  twice,'  put  in  Charlie  Mason  faintly. 

"Well,  once  in  particular.  Mr  Laister  came  in 
while  we  were  talking  about  it,  and  we  suggested  that 
he  might  make  some  appropriate  verses — well  /  did, 
if  you  must  be  so  very  accurate ! "  —  in  answer  to  a 
special  look  from  Charlie. 

"  A  possible  way  out  of  the  difficulty  has  occurred  to 
me  in  thinking  over  that  conversation,"  she  went  on. 
"  Do  you  recollect  my  saying  that  I  had  some  trouble 
in  getting  the  shopkeeper  to  let  me  have  the  vase? 
That  I  had  to — oh  well — persuade  him  to  it  ? " 

"  Yes,  by  Jove !  I  do,"  said  Charlie,  and  with  unusual 
seriousness.  Unlike  the  Poet,  the  remembrance  came 
to  him  as  no  shock,  for  in  the  secrecy  of  his  thoughts 
he  had  dwelt  on  it  often  during  the  last  few  days, 
finding  it  not  altogether  to  his  liking. 

"  It  is  a  little  late  to  wish  I  hadn't  been  successful, 
now,  isn't  it  ? "  questioned  My  Lady.  There  was  an 
anxious  and  troubled  droop  about  the  corners  of  her 
mouth,  and  although  Charlie  loved  that  look  of  hers,  it 


156  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

was  not  in  him  to  rest  in  peace  until  he  had  dispelled 
it. 

"  If  I  have  it  out  with  the  shopkeeper  himself,"  he 
began,  "I'll  jolly  well " 

But  My  Lady  interrupted  him.  Her  face  had  gained 
all  its  accustomed  brightness.  "  That's  it ! "  she  cried, 
excitedly.  "  What  a  nice,  sharp  boy  you  are  !  That  is 
just  what  I  want  you  to  do ! " 

Charlie's  face  fell  this  time.  He  had  meant  nothing 
very  literal. 

"  And  is  your  idea  a  stand-up  fight  ? "  enquired  he. 
"  But  perhaps  the  shopkeeper  is  not  after  all  the  one. 
Now,  if  the  Duchess  were  only  a  man ? " 

"  You  are  getting  childish,"  warned  My  Lady.  "  To 
fight  is  just  the  very  last  thing  I  can — well,  can  afford 
to  do.  I  should  prefer  it,  of  course,  but  circumstances 
over  which  I  have  no  further  control — now — and 
I  can't  be  expected  to  foresee  things  like  the  Poet — 
prevent  my  taking  that  course." 

"  Don't  you  see,"  she  went  on  after  a  little  pause, 
bending  forward  and  making  her  speech  with  one  out- 
stretched hand,  "  that  when  I  persuaded  the  shopkeeper 
to  sell  me  the  vase,  which  he  had,  we  know  now,  sold 
previously  to  the  Duchess,  I  rather  put  my  foot  in  it ; 
gave  myself  away,  in  fact  ?  I  don't  mind  owning — to 
you — that  I  ought  not  to  have  done  it." 

"It  was  the  shopkeeper's  fault,"  said  Charlie, 
valiantly. 

"  It  was,  with  him,  a  matter  of  doubling  the  price," 
said  My  Lady,  as  though  she  saw  an  almost  sufficient 
excuse  therein  for  the  shopkeeper.  "  But  I  remember, 
in  that  conversation  we  were  speaking  of,  your  suggest- 


A  GUERDON  FOR  CHARLIE  157 

ing  to  Mr  Laister  that  he  might  apply  to  the 
shopkeeper,  when  he  seemed  to  want  details  for  his 
poem.  Don't  you  ? " 

"  I  think  I  do." 

"  Now,"  said  she,  going  on  quickly,  "  that  is  what  I 
am  coming  to,  and  that  is  where  I  am  sure  you  can 
help  me.  The  shopkeeper  is  naturally  the  only  one 
who  can  really  explain  things  at  all.  And  with 

management "  this  with  a  smile  at  Charlie,  "and 

since  he  must  have  been  in  the  wrong,  too,  I  do  not 
think  he  would  refuse  to  explain — within  limits.  It 
would  be  easy  to  promise  a  good  deal  to  him,  if 
he  seemed  to  require  it,  and  really  I  found  him  a  very 
nice  man." 

Perhaps  Charlie  considered  that  so  very  much  did 
not  follow  on  that.  At  any  rate,  his  brow  was  not  quite 
clear  of  puzzle  yet. 

"  And  then  ? "  he  queried. 

"  And  then,"  said  My  Lady,  "  there  is  the  Duchess. 
Don't  you  think,  with  a  suitable  explanation,  worded 
by  some  one  who  thoroughly  understood  the  case, 
she  might  be  brought  to  see  the  thing  in  a  new 
light?" 

"Not  necessarily  though,  in  every  detail  yours,  or 
even  the  shopkeeper's." 

It  was  of  course  necessary  at  all  events  that  Charlie 
himself  should  be  as  clear  as  possible. 

My  Lady  nodded. 

"  Who  is  going  to  undertake  that  mission  ? "  asked 
Charlie.  "  Supposing  the  shopkeeper  does  give  the 
explanation  we  require  of  him." 

My  Lady  looked  very  sweetly  at  Charlie. 


158  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

"  I  should  never  have  trusted  you  at  all,"  said  she, 
"  unless  I  felt  I  could  do  it  entirely." 

Charlie  Mason  had  been  endeavouring  to  relieve  his 
overwrought  feelings  by  walking  about  the  room.  He 
now  sat  down  with  much  suddenness. 

"  Well ! "  said  he.  "  If  that  doesn't  beat  everything 
for  coolness ! " 

His  face  had  not  by  any  means  the  look  of 
acquiescence  for  which  My  Lady  had  been  fondly 
hoping. 

She  played  her  last  card,  and  without  her  accustomed 
confidence. 

"I  cannot  possibly  go  myself,"  she  said,  drearily. 
"  I'm  sure  you'll  own  that.  And  then,  can't  you  under- 
stand, that  if  some  one  doesn't  go  for  me  soon,  it  may 
be  too  late  ?  How  can  we  possibly  tell  that  the 
Duchess  won't  ?  And  you  know  I  have  no  one  else  I 
could  explain  all  this  to." 

There  was  dejection,  almost  to  the  point  of  tears,  in 
Lady  Margery's  subdued  tones. 

So  Charlie  was  made  short  work  of. 

"  Oh,  cheer  up !  "  said  he.  "  Do.  Of  course  I'll  go 
for  you.  If  it  were  a  thousand  times  worse  I'd  be  as 
ready.  There!  Thank  you  for  that  smile — that's 
better.  I'll  do  it  if  I  can.  I'll  do  my  level  best, 
at  least.  And  I  only  hope  you  don't  over-rate  the 
possibilities  of  success,  and  my  powers." 

"  You  are "  said  my  Lady  beaming  again,  "  you 

are,  without  a  doubt,  a  charm  !  Whatever  comes  of  it, 
and  I  do  think  something  must,  you  shall  have  the 
expression  of  my  everlasting  gratitude." 

"Expressed  in  what?"  said   Charlie  Mason  in  an 


A  GUERDON  FOR  CHARLIE  159 

unconscious  copy  of  the  curt  and  business-like  tones 
of  John  Huddleston  Jones. 

"  In  words "  said  Lady  Margery,  recognising  and 

smiling  at  the  voice, "  and  companionship,  and  time " 

"  You  are  so  generous  by  nature,"  said  Charlie,  "  and 
there  are  so  many  you  admit  to  these  privileges." 

"  Any  one  in  particular  ? "  queried  My  Lady. 

"  There  is  Laister  for  one,"  said  this  extremely  candid 
young  man. 

My  Lady's  smile  deepened. 

"  What  a  boy  you  are  !  "  said  she.  "  What  a  ridiculous 
boy !  I  wonder  I  dare  trust  you.  But  there — I  think 
I  can  even  promise  you  that,  and — why,  and  especially 
since  Miss  Penelope  has  come  to  Town !  You  shall  not 
have  reason  to  complain  in  future,  if  you  have 
had." 

"  Right  you  are  then,"  said  Charlie.  "  I  only  hope  it 
will  be  right  with  me  too.  And,"  he  reflected,  "  the 
best  of  it  is,  bless  her  kind  little  heart,  that  she  won't 
forget  any  how,  I  know." 

Now  although  the  business  deputed  to  him  was 
hardly  to  his  taste,  Charlie's  first  idea  was  to  get  it 
over  as  quickly  as  possible  ;  both  with  a  view  to  being 
personally  quit  of  it,  and  for  My  Lady's  sake.  But  in 
the  doing  it  took  longer  than  either  of  the  ardent  spirits 
concerned  would  ever  have  imagined  or  desired. 

First  of  all  the  shopkeeper,  being  among  the  fortunate 
of  his  class,  was  only  occasionally  to  be  found  in  his 
shop  and,  as  it  chanced,  it  was  some  time  before  Charlie 
caught  him  at  all.  Then  the  Duchess  became  suddenly 
inaccessible,  and  altogether,  through  no  fault  of  his  own, 
Charlie's  completed  report  was  long  in  reaching  My 


160  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

Lady,  although  he  did  not  fail  to  frequently  reassure 
her  as  to  the  genuineness  of  the  efforts  he  was  making. 
And  while  this  was  going  on,  other  events  were 
following  fast,  and  many  of  them  unexpectedly,  in  the 
history  of  the  Poet  and  Penelope. 


CHAPTEE  XXIII 

SUCCESS  IN  THE  MAKING 

"FROM  beginning  to  end,"  sighed  Penelope,  a  little 
ungratefully,  "  this  vase  business  has  been  unfortunate." 
"And  you  are  further  unfortunate  in  deceiving 
yourself,"  said  the  Poet,  "if  you  fancy  the  end  is 
arrived  at  yet,  or  anything  like  it." 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  anything — anything  connected. 
It  is  all  too  puzzling."  Then  Penelope  remembered 
that  she  was  very  displeased  with  the  Poet,  and  that 
she  was  never  going  to  forgive  him  for  the  publicity 
he  had  brought  to  the  song  of  the  nightingale  in  the 
wild  cherry-tree.  And  she  set  about  showing  her 
displeasure  to  the  best  of  her  ability. 

"  Yet,"  she  said,  "  but  for  the  vase  I  should  not  have 
been  able  to  come  to  London ;  you  would  never  have 
seen  me  here.  You  don't  seem  to  think  of  that  ever 
when  you  are  so  ready  to  be  annoyed  with  it — poor 
old  vase!"  Truly  Penelope's  methods  of  revealing 
her  disapproval  were  original,  but  they  were  apparently 
suited  to  the  Poet's  intelligence. 

"Don't  I  think  of  it,  Penelope?"  he  asked.  "I  am 
never  without  thought  of  it  in  some  form  or  another. 
Vou  don't  know  how  I  have  revelled  in  having  you  up 

L  18J 


162  THE  POET  AND   PENELOPE 

here,  and  meeting  you  so  often.  Yet  never  so  often  as 
I  should  like — as  I  should  like,  Penelope." 

"You  are  always  so  busy,"  said  Penelope,  almost  as 
though  that  were  another  grievance.  Yet  unreasonable- 
ness was  a  new  trait  in  her. 

"  I  have  had  to  be  busy,"  defended  the  Poet.  "  But 
after  to-morrow  night  I  shall  not  be  so  busy  any  more. 
You  can  hardly  realise  what  a  lot  of  work  the  producing 
of  this  play  of  mine  involves.  I  have  seemed  to  be 
drowned  in  it,  and  at  a  most  tiresome  time,  as  regards 
my  present  enjoyment.  What  with  that — and  how  I 
hope  it  will  be  successful! — and  what  with  all  the 
fables  I  have  had  poured  into  my  ears  about  this 
precious " 

"Oh,  they  have  seemed  as  nothing,"  interrupted 
Penelope,  "compared  with  the  fables  I  have  been 
called  upon  to  invent  myself  about  it ! " 

"  How  do  you  mean  ? " 

"  Why !  in  answer  to  the  fables."  She  leant  towards 
him.  "Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "that  I  have  been 
quite  horribly  near  revealing  my  own  connection  with 
it  ever  so  many  times  ? — Oh  yes,  and  yours — just,  well 
just  to  create  another  new  sensation,  I  suppose.  It 
isn't  a  nice  thought,  and  it  would  seem  rather  mean 
towards  you." 

"That  is  so,"  assented  the  Poet,  rather  shortly. 
"  Landed  me  in  a  jolly  old  muddle  all  round." 

He  seemed  aggrieved,  and  his  assumption  of  that 
attitude  reminded  Penelope  afresh  that  there  lay  her 
particular,  self-elected  rdle.  Perhaps  from  inadvertence, 
but  certainly  with  the  effect  of  emphasizing  the  coolness 
to  which  she  now  reverted,  she  turned  the  conversation 


SUCCESS  IN  THE  MAKING  163 

to  the  Poet's  play,  to  be  produced  the  following  night 
by  a  distinguished  company  of  amateurs,  under  the  best 
professional  guidance,  and  the  o'er-shadowing  wing  of 
Lady  Marian  Markham. 

The  Poet  would  have  been  even  more  astounded  to 
hear  Penelope  going  through  all  the  pretty,  appropriate 
things  suitable  to  the  eve  of  such  an  occasion,  with 
every  particle  of  warmth  and  life  carefully  omitted,  if 
he  had  not  once  or  twice  during  the  last  few  days, 
since  Lady  Marian's  party,  indeed,  detected  in  her  a 
strange,  new  variableness  and  a  tendency  to  relapse 
into  an  unheard-of  chilliness. 

Although  not  very  certain  of  his  ground,  he  naturally 
fancied  he  might  be  right  in  considering  this  partial 
change  in  her  as  the  consequence  of  Lord  Markham's 
interruption,  and  the  fact  that  he  had  made  no  effort  to 
revert  in  any  way  to  what  had  preceded  that  inter- 
ruption. For  one  thing,  opportunity  had  failed  him — 
until  now. 

And  now,  with  only  a  few  hours  between  him  and  a 
surer  knowledge  of  his  true  position  in  the  literary 
arena,  he  still  hesitated.  If  petulance  on  such  a  point 
was  foreign  to  all  he  knew  of  Penelope,  if  it  was  even  a 
little  unworthy  of  her,  that  did  not  weigh  with  him. 
But  his  old  caution  did. 

Should  the  drama  prove  successful,  and  if — well,  if 
again  he  could  not  help  himself — he  would  set  about 
finding  out  the  cause  of  Penelope's  disapproval,  and 
from  that  he  would  go  on  to  telling  her  of  all  those 
wonderful,  most  wonderful  discoveries,  which  every  man 
finds  in  the  fastnesses  of  his  heart  for  the  benefit  of  the 
woman  he  loves. 


164  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

He  knew  very  well  that  he  could  not  satisfy  his 
curiosity  without  immediately  proceeding  to  satisfy  his 
love,  and  so  he  elected  to  still  leave  it  all.  Let  Penelope 
wish  him  good  luck  with  her  lips,  and  contradict  ner 
wishes  by  her  tones,  and  with  her  eyes,  and  yet  he  was 
not  ill-satisfied.  For  he  understood  that  huffiness  is 
often  the  outrider  to  submission  in  a  woman,  and  he 
was  not  wholly  to  blame  if  he  judged  Penelope,  on  this 
occasion  only,  by  the  standard  generally  accorded  to 
her  sex. 

Why  Penelope  did  not  tell  him,  on  her  own  account, 
the  real  reason  she  had  for  thinking  badly  of  him,  is 
harder  to  arrive  at.  Perhaps  she  feared  what  might 
come  of  it,  while  her  present  state  of  mind  lasted,  or 
feared  to  find  her  anger  dispersing  in  his  excuses,  and 
her  resolves  overborne  by  what  could  hardly  help 
following  his  excuses,  to  render  them  excusable.  Yet 
still  more  likely,  so  far  had  she  travelled  lately  from 
her  accustomed  ways  of  thought,  a  strange  fit  of 
shyness  may  have  touched  her  to  hold  her  silent;  or 
some  idea  beset  her,  that  a  Poet  who  could  sell  such  a 
poem,  the  offspring  of  so  dear  an  incident,  would  not 
readily  understand  her  objection  to  its  sale. 

However  it  may  have  been,  she  let  him  go — when 
she  might  so  easily  have  kept  him.  When  she  might 
so  easily,  just  by  telling  him  what  was  in  her  mind 
(and  wasn't  that  her  almost  invariable  custom  ?)  have 
led  him  into  telling  her  in  return  all  she  wanted 
of  him. 

But  then  it  must  be  remembered  how  she  had 
definitely  decided  that  there  remained  nothing  in  him 
on  which  she  desired  a  claim.  It  is  important  to  a 


SUCCESS  IN  THE  MAKING  165 

clear  reading  of  her  standpoint,  but  that  it  should  need 
recalling  is  not  remarkable,  for  Penelope  herself  would 
lose  sight  of  it,  temporarily  it  is  true,  but  with  an 
embarrassing  frequency. 

Now  Penelope  never  made  any  secret  of  the  fact 
that  she  had  not  read  the  Poet's  poetry,  or  disguised 
from  herself,  or  any  one,  a  disability  to  find  interest,  or 
even  meaning,  in  any  poetry  considered  worthy  of  the 
name.  Since  she  came  to  London  she  had  found  it  a 
not  uncommon  experience  to  be  agreed  with  on  these 
points.  An  agreement  generally  tempered  with  a 
strong  personal  liking  (her  case  again)  for  the  Hon. 
Laurence  Albert  Laister,  quite  regardless  of  his  works. 
So  she  was  not  surprised,  when  the  time  came,  to  find 
his  Drama  about  to  be  performed  to  a  crowded  and 
eager  audience.  Yet — "  Are  all  these  literary  ? "  she 
asked  Lord  Colbeck  when  they  were  seated.  "They 
can't  be,  surely  ?  " 

"  They're  not,"  said  Lord  Colbeck.  "  And  more  than 
half  would  deny  the  imputation  with — well,  with 
warmth.  Laister's  poetry  is  growing  fashionable " 

"  Now,  why  is  it  ? "  Penelope  interrupted  to  ask. 

"  I  really  can't  say,"  admitted  Lord  Colbeck.  "  Like 
the  poetry,  that's  beyond  me." 

"  Is  it  because  it's  really  good,  I  wonder  ? "  went  on 
Penelope,  bent  on  information,  "  or  because  he  is  good- 
looking — or  good  company !  Three  goods  to  choose 
from.  Now,  which  is  it  ? " 

Instead  of  immediately  answering  her,  or  very  likely 
because  he  had  no  answer  ready,  Lord  Colbeck  turned 
to  her,  and  caught  a  look  of  wistfulness  before  it 
vanished  from  her  face.  Although  he  was  a  free  man 


166  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

now,  freer  by  reason  of  Miss  Eunice's  letter  than  he 
could  feel  that  he  deserved  to  be,  his  eyes  clouded. 
Yet  Penelope  had  never  appeared  prettier. 

"  Which  way  would  you  rather  have  it  ? "  he 
questioned,  as  the  indirect  result  of  his  scrutiny. 

"  I  would  rather,"  said  Penelope,  speaking  slowly, 
"have  the  poetry  good,  because  that  would  satisfy  a 
poet  most,  wouldn't  it  ?  The  appreciation  would  mean 
more  then." 

"  Except  to  you  and  such  as  you,"  said  Lord  Colbeck 
rather  unkindly.  "  For  other  people's  appreciation 
wouldn't  make  you  understand  it ;  or  make  you  find  it 
more  taking." 

"I  suppose  not,  but  I  hadn't  thought  of  all  that, 
Lord  Colbeck,"  said  Penelope,  and  said  it  with  evident 
reluctance. 

Lord  Colbeck,  always  easily  moved,  now  wished  he 
had  not  spoken,  and  though  this  was  not  a  thing  he 
cared  to  do  just  then,  and  especially  to  Penelope,  he 
sought  for  something  complimentary  to  say  about  the 
Poet,  which  might  soften  the  effect  of  what  he  last  said. 
And  he  certainly  showed  his  wisdom  in  thus  only 
partially  changing  the  subject. 

"  There  must  be  something  special  about  the  old 
fellow,"  he  said  pleasantly.  "In  his  verses,  or  in 
himself,  or  both,  or  you'd  never  have  got  my  mater 
here  actually  before  the  start.  That  alone  speaks 
volumes.  Ah! — Here  goes." 

What  went  was  the  curtain,  and  thereafter  Penelope 
gave  herself  up  to  trying  to  solve  her  own  problem  in 
her  own  way.  For  once,  Lord  Colbeck  was  obliged 
to  assume  contentment  with  such  conversational  scraps 


SUCCESS  IN  THE  MAKING  167 

as  fell  from  her  at  long  intervals.  Her  real  attention 
was  all  given  to  the  Poet's  Drama. 

If  she  was  pleased,  she  was  not  alone  in  her  pleasure, 
for  it  did  not  need  the  completing  of  the  Drama  to 
judge  of  its  chances  of  abiding  success.  Long  before 
the  curtain  fell  for  the  last  time,  that  was  a  foregone 
conclusion,  and  even  the  Poet  had  gladly  given  up  his 
own  judgment  in  favour  of  Lady  Marian's. 

As  they  moved  after  the  Duchess  towards  their 
carriage,  Lord  Colbeck  bent  for  a  moment  over 
Penelope.  They  were  going  to  supper  at  Lady  Marian's 
to  meet  the  Poet  and  others  of  the  elect. 

"  Are  you  satisfied  ? "  he  asked. 

"  Satisfied  ;  but  not  quite  sure." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  If  I  wanted  to  be  satisfied,"  said  Penelope. 

"  Will  you  explain  that  to  me,  later  ?  '* 

"  It  depends " 

"  Well,  what  on  ?— on  the  Poet  ?  " 

"  Perhaps — a  little — on  the  Poet." 

"  Ah !  That  Poet ! "  said  Lord  Colbeck,  giving 

to  expression  what  he  took  from  friendliness. 

"I  have  felt  like  that  too,  sometimes,"  admitted 
Penelope,  unexpectedly.  "  Especially  of  late." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

IN  DEFENCE   OF  THE  POET 

THAT  supper-party  at  Lady  Marian  Markham's,  which 
was  certainly  shorter  than  such  things  usually  are, 
seemed  almost  interminable  to  Penelope.  Although  she 
undoubtedly  contributed  greatly  to  the  gaiety  of  the 
entertainment,  for  once  she  herself  remained  unenter- 
tained.  More  than  anything  she  desired  to  be  alone, 
with  time  at  her  disposal  to  think  over  her  own  affairs, 
and  it  seemed  as  if  her  wish  (and  surely  it  was  a  simple 
wish  ?)  was  never  to  be  granted.  But  at  last  it  was  all 
over,  and  her  bedroom  door  shut  on  her. 

She  began  with  some  regret  that  she  had  not  been  a 
little  more  cordial  to  the  Poet  in  her  congratulations. 
She  had  even  forced  him  to  begin.  "  Aren't  you  glad  ? " 
he  had  found  opportunity  to  ask  her,  and  she  had  con- 
tented herself,  although  there  had  been  plenty  of  time 
for  more,  with  just  one  little  word — "  Yes."  Truly,  she 
did  not  take  into  account  how  a  glance  from  her  eyes 
had  magnified  the  affirmative.  She  only  thought  how 
much  she  would  generally  have  found  to  say,  and  went 
on  to  plan  how  she  would  have  said  it. 

But  wholly  futile  regrets  never  occupied  Penelope 
for  long ;  not  even  when  she  had  but  little  to  disturb 

108 


IN  DEFENCE  OF  THE  POET  169 

her,  and  must  needs  make  the  most  of  that  little.  Now 
she  had  a  very  great  deal  to  be  really  sorry  about,  or  so 
she  thought,  and  its  effect  was  to  dwarf  all  other 
thoughts  in  her  mind.  Yet  she  had  reached  sorrow 
by  a  strange  road.  Through  nothing  less  than  a  real 
and  unexpected  appreciation  of  the  Poet's  Drama. 

Even  now,  she  did  not  pretend  to  thoroughly  under- 
stand it.  But  its  hold  on  her  fancy  was  not  lessened 
by  that,  even  was  it  made  the  firmer. 

The  flowing,  musical  rhythm  of  the  lines  had  stirred 
her  brain — as  her  feet  were  wont  to  be  stirred,  to  be  set 
going  almost  against  her  will,  by  the  sweeping  strains 
of  a  valse — and  she  did  not  ask  the  wherefore  in  one 
case  more  than  in  another.  She  did  not  miss  the 
beauties  of  expression,  because  she  had  no  scales  of 
comparison  by  which  to  try  them.  Instinct  guided 
her  to  them,  as  it  had  always  served  to  guide  her  to 
the  best  of  everything  she  had  come  in  contact  with 
all  her  life.  She  knew  when  a  thing  was  good,  just 
as  surely  as  if  she  had  a  thousand  parallel  cases  to 
quote  in  support  of  her  knowledge.  It  seemed  she 
was  just  one  of  those  whom  outside  opinions  did  not 
touch,  because  she  had  no  need  of  them.  God  gave 
her  the  inestimable  gift  of  taste,  and  she  had  the 
courage  to  apply  it  unobscured  by  the  gropingly  arrived- 
at  standards  of  men. 

She  had  laughed  at  the  Poet's  assumption  of  the 
artistic  temperament,  as  a  workaday  garment,  ever 
since  she  had  known  him.  His  intermittent  affecta- 
tion of  flowery  speech;  the  attraction  the  fantastic 
setting  and  the  parable  held  for  him.  But  these 
things  had  not  served  to  blind  her  to  the  man's 


170  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

soundness  of  purpose,  to  his  very  real  devotion  to 
his  art,  which  it  pleased  him  to  play  with  on  the 
surf»3e.  Only  never  having  troubled  to  probe  below 
the  surface  '(which  in  itself  amply  amused  her,  and 
she  loved  to  be  amused  better  than  anything),  she  had 
not  seriously  decided  whether  the  art  was  worth  the 
service. 

And  now  she  knew  that  it  was. 

She  had  been  very  jealous  for  the  true  poetical 
ideal,  that  it  should  not  be  belittled  in  any  way,  when 
her  ideas  concerning  it  were  but  hazy.  See  how  the 
matter  of  that  poem  of  the  nightingale  in  the  wild 
cherry-tree  had  distressed  her.  (With  equally  distress- 
ing results  in  pickle  for  the  Poet,  had  he  but  known.) 
So,  no  doubt,  it  was  all  very  much  stronger  in  her 
mind,  she  having  been  shown,  as  in  a  flash,  the  wonder- 
ful value  of  this  great  thing  at  which  she  had  only 
been  dimly  guessing.  And  it  would  be  enough  to 
account  for  her  concern  if,  as  was  possible  in  spite  of 
all  she  had  decided,  there  had  remained  just  a  faint, 
only  half-acknowledged,  hope  for  the  Poet  after  all. 
For  probably  it  was  there  no  longer,  and  he  was  to  her 
as  one  who  had  ignominiously  failed  before  the  act. 

But  in  reality,  and  strange  as  it  seems,  Penelope 
no  longer  cared  greatly  about  the  poem  of  the 
nightingale  in  the  wild  cherry-tree  one  way  or  the 
other.  In  spite  of  all  she  had  thought  of  it,  and 
determined  because  of  it  (and  especially  because  of 
its  misappropriation),  the  whole  incident  had  dwindled 
down  into  microscopic  proportions  compared  to  this 
other  matter  now  newly  arisen  to  such  supreme 
importance. 


IN  DEFENCE  OF  THE  POET  171 

She  even  paused  to  wonder  how  she  had  come  to 
make  so  much  fuss  about  so  little. 

The  kiss,  indeed,  still  kept  at  its  original  value.  Was 
still  a  most  precious  memory ;  as  the  first  ever  given  to 
her,  and  more — the  only  kiss  that  ever  would  be  given 
to  her — by  her  one  man  of  all  men.  Yet  she  had 
known  at  the  time,  and  remembered  still,  that  it  had 
been  prompted  by  a  spirit  of  frolic  in  the  Poet,  and 
had  no  part  in  the  necessitous  pleadings  of  love. 

But  all  the  rest,  his  supposed  poor  show  of  feeling 
and  her  anger,  had  become  as  nothing;  not  to  be 
counted.  Except  by  those  on  the  look-out  for  another 
example  of  how  a  woman  will  weave  excuses  for  a  man 
out  of  the  very  slights  he  puts  upon  her. 

For  Penelope  was  now  quite  positive  that  the  Poet 
would  never  have  carelessly  (as  she  had  sometimes 
imagined),  or  unkindly  (as  she  had  half  believed), 
brought  publicity  to  the  poem.  But  that  rather  he 
must  have  been  prompted  by  some  good  and  sufficient 
reason ;  such  a  reason  as  she  would  be  bound  to  respect. 
And  one  day,  as  a  great  favour  and  treat  to  herself 
(though  perhaps  she  need  not  explain  to  him  quite  all 
that),  she  would  ask  him  to  tell  her  how  it  had  come 
about.  First  assuring  him,  by  way  of  penance,  that  it 
must  be  for  the  best,  since  he  had  done  it.  In  the 
meantime  she  put  it  aside ;  or  at  least  prepared  to  do 
so.  A  poet  who  had  so  triumphed  in  any  branch  of 
his  beautiful  art,  as  this  poet  had  triumphed  in  his 
Drama,  was  not  to  be  mistrusted  in  that  manner  any 
more.  Penelope,  being  now  in  bed,  and  moreover  in 
the  darkness,  felt  hot  tears  of  shame  in  her  eyes  for 
her  recent  doubt  now  dead  and  deeply  buried. 


172  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

Then  the  tears,  for  a  few  agonised  moments  (which 
is  the  most  at  a  time  that  any  man  gets,  and  more, 
God  knows,  than  any  man  deserves),  fell  faster  and 
faster.  For  the  Poet  was  also  a  man,  and  how  she 
loved  the  man  in  him! 

If  he  had  only  been  all  man  as  other  men  were, 
so  that  she  might  have  known  him  thoroughly !  Or  if 
he  had  been  all  poet,  so  that  she  would  not  have 
known  him  at  all — or  wanted  to !  Everything  would 
have  been  so  much  easier. 

But  what  a  price  to  pay  for  easiness.  There  was 
not  a  tiny  look  or  trick  of  him — dear,  delightful,  easily- 
played-on  man,  or  quaint,  undecipherable  poet — that 
she  was  willing  to  part  with.  She  dried  her  eyes 
with  that. 

Better  part  with  him  altogether.  And  wasn't  that 
the  only  thing  left  to  her?  she  asked,  and  so  fell 
again  to  sobbing. 

Penelope  had  seen,  as  has  been  said,  and  in  spite  of 
herself,  that  the  Drama  was  good.  She  had  visionarily 
realised,  via  the  Poet,  how  good  must  be  the  whole 
kingdom  of  poesy  from  which  sprang  this  Drama. 
She  knew  that,  in  possessing  this  gift,  he  possessed  a 
priceless  thing,  to  be  treasured  at  all  cost.  But  she 
also  knew  that  in  this  knowledge  she  reached  her 
utmost  limit. 

She  would  never  really  understand  the  Drama,  and 
if  not  the  Drama,  then  not  any  of  the  poems  he  had 
written,  or  was  yet  to  write.  Except,  perhaps,  a 
sentimental  trifle  here  and  there,  as  this  matin  song 
of  a  nightingale. 

The  falling  together,  as  it  were,  of  the  words  might 


IN  DEFENCE  OF  THE  POET  173 

please  her;  the  sentences  ring  musically,  even  sug- 
gestively. But  of  what?  At  the  best,  of  the  most 
trivial  matters,  and  usually  of  nothing  at  all.  No 
lofty,  beautiful,  awe-inspiring  thoughts  would  come  to 
her  that  way,  although  she  was  obliged  to  believe  it 
was  a  way  alive  and  radiant  with  them  to  nearly  all 
the  rest  of  the  world. 

To  her  it  was  just  a  meaningless  trickery  of  words, 
to  play  upon  the  senses  at  first  sight ;  to  tantalise  and 
fret  at  closer  quarters.  Patterns  of  sound,  which  suc- 
cessfully covered  up  everything  they  expressed.  A 
species  of  skilful  jugglery,  with  undoubted  practice  at 
the  back  of  it,  but  with  no  tangible  result. 

So  it  seemed ;  but  she  knew  well  enough  that  it  was 
not  so.  Hers  was  the  pitiable  blindness  that  cannot 
disbelieve  in  the  light. 

Now  whether,  if  it  had  been  a  question  of  marrying 
a  mathematician,  she  would  have  considered  it  necessary 
to  grasp  all  the  obtuse  calculations  he  met  with  in  the 
way  of  his  profession,  and  further  consider  it  imperative 
to  refuse  him  if  she  failed  in  this  (and  in  that  case  she 
must  certainly  have  refused  him),  is  a  development 
which  Penelope,  very  probably,  never  thought  out,  or 
set  aside,  if  it  did  occur  to  her.  For  she  plainly  put 
the  artistic  temperament  above  a  capacity  for  managing 
figures,  or  any  such  earth-bound  gift.  She  put  it 
above  everything,  though  she  could  hardly  have  ex- 
plained why.  And  especially,  she  exalted  that  variety 
which  leaves  its  happy  possessor  in  the  shape  of  verses. 

Moreover,  she  knew,  again  instinctively,  that  this 
faculty  needed  cherishing.  She  believed  it  was  also 
in  need  of  that  encouragement,  which  is  born  alone  of 


174  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

comprehension.  All  its  surroundings,  she  was  con- 
vinced, ought  to  be  in  peaceful  harmony.  Nothing 
should  be  allowed  to  jar ;  nothing  tolerated,  in  any 
near  connection,  that  was  not  capable  of  fostering  help. 

A  poet's  wife  should  be  able  to  give  him  such  help. 
Should  be  able  to  criticise  with  conviction,  sympathise 
with  discretion.  Mere  unquestioning  praise  for  love 
of  the  man  not  counting. 

And,  since  this  was  all  denied  to  her,  she  must  never 
be  his  wife.  This  was  the  simple  secret  of  her  un- 
happiness. 

She  made  up  her  mind,  as  her  habit  was,  quite 
decisively,  and  almost  at  once.  Yet  she  had  never 
wanted  him  as  she  wanted  him  to-night,  when  she  had 
seen  him  most  successful.  For  success  had  a  magnetic 
attraction  for  Penelope. 

So  greatly  did  she  value  it  indeed,  that  she  was 
making  ready  to  sacrifice  herself  with  no  other  object 
than  to  keep  it  for  him.  Yet,  as  a  sacrifice,  she  hardly 
regarded  this.  She  had  learnt  love  rightly  from  the 
first ;  the  rare  love  which  values  a  man  above  his 
company. 

"But  perhaps  he  will  be  sorry,"  she  said.  "What 
shall  I  do  if  he  is  very  sorry  ? "  she  moaned,  never 
doubting  that  she  would  at  once  detect  his  sorrow. 
But  she  went  on  to  nerve  herself  to  face  that  also,  if  it 
should  prove  necessary,  and  very  likely  that  was  the 
hardest  thing  of  all.  For  alone,  in  the  darkness,  she 
could  fancy  just  how  he  must  hurt  her  with  every  look, 
if  he  looked  sorry. 

Yet  had  she  not  often  read  how  unhappy  love  alone 
can  inspire  the  poet  to  his  highest  flights  ?  And  she 


IN  DEFENCE  OF  THE  POET  175 

would  have  her  Poet  free  of  all  obstacles  to  his  pro- 
gress. And  indeed,  was  not  that  one  way  in  which 
she  might  help  him — if  he  loved  her?  And  she 
wanted  so  to  be  loved,  that,  try  as  she  might,  she  could 
not  quite  stifle  a  hope  that  he  loved  her.  So  she  seized 
on  this  chance  of  assisting  him,  as  her  conclusive 
argument,  if  she  needed  one,  against  marrying  him. 

But  then  her  love  had  become  so  much  a  part  of 
her,  that  it  resented  this  newer  admiration  being  put 
before  it  with  a  vehemence  to  which  she  could  foresee 
no  abatement.  Yet  she  battled  bravely,  unflinchingly, 
even  at  the  beginning — with  years  to  follow.  Her 
very  youth  held  new  terrors  for  her.  Hardly  a  view  of 
life  but  was  shaken  to  its  deep  foundations.  Only, 
through  it  all,  she  kept  the  greatness  of  the  cause  she 
had  elected  to  serve  resolutely  before  her.  And  only 
in  its  greatness,  did  she  find  her  strength.  The 
salvation  of  a  poet!  She  saw  it  as  nothing  less. 

And  Penelope  was  in  the  habit  of  calling  the  Poet 
romantic,  and  the  Poet  of  laughing  at  Penelope  as 
hopelessly  practical. 


CHAPTEE  XXV 

PENELOPE  RETURNS  TO  BLYTHEDOWN 

PENELOPE  slept  late  into  the  next  morning,  and  even 
then,  she  had  only  slept  for  a  little  while.  She  awoke 
with  a  start  to  see  the  Duchess  at  her  bedside,  looking 
down  at  her  with  kindly  eyes,  which  yet  were  shadowed 
with  misgiving. 

"  How  pretty  you  are  asleep,  child ! "  was  the  Duchess' 
characteristic  beginning. 

Penelope  continued  to  smile  up  at  the  Duchess, 
while  life  settled  slowly  back  upon  her  to  the 
banishing  of  the  smile.  When  it  was  quite  gone, 
almost  as  if  she  had  been  waiting  for  this,  the  Duchess 
produced  a  telegram  and  gave  it  to  her. 

"  Just  read  it,  dear.  I  don't  suppose  it's  anything, 
but  you  know  what  a  '  f usser,'  as  Colin  calls  it,  I  am 
about  these  things :  so  I  thought  I  would  come 
myself." 

It  was  quite  true  that  the  Duchess  was  possessed  of 
a  nervous,  old-fashioned  prejudice  against  the  modern 
casual  use  of  telegrams,  which  made  her  friends  un- 
willing to  disturb  her  with  them  more  than  was 
necessary. 

"  They  may  mean  nothing  bad,"  she  would  say,  "  but 
m 


PENELOPE  RETUENS  TO  BLYTHEDOWN    177 

the,y  always  make  me  feel  anxious."  She  began  some- 
thing like  this  now,  to  be  interrupted  by  a  cry  from 
Penelope. 

"Oh!"  she  said,  "Oh!"  Then,  as  if  she  pulled 
herself  sharply  together,  she  passed  the  fluttering,  pink 
paper  to  the  Duchess.  "  Tell  me  what  it  means  ? "  she 
asked.  "  What  does  it  mean  ? " 

" '  Your  Aunt  ill ;  come  at  once.  —  Jane. ' "  the 
Duchess  read  impressively.  "  You  haven't  heard  of  her 
being  worse,  Penelope  ? "  Her  face  showed  all  the 
sudden  alarm  to  which  she  was  prone,  and  looking  at  it 
Penelope  seemed  to  win  back  her  own  independence  of 
spirit. 

"  No — no  I  haven't — not  worse,"  she  said,  already 
out  of  bed  and  hunting  her  slippers.  She  paused,  with 
one  foot  still  bare,  to  fling  her  arms  round  the  Duchess. 

"You  have  been  such  a  dear  to  me,"  she  said.  "Now 
go  and  find  out  about  the  next  train,  will  you  ? " 

The  Duchess  waited  just  long  enough  to  kiss 
Penelope,  as  the  outcome  of  a  very  real  affection  and  a 
foreboding  of  evil  at  least  as  genuine.  Then  she  left 
her  to  her  speedy  dressing  and  went  obediently  in  quest 
of  a  time-table,  or  some  one  to  search  in  a  time-table, 
which  served  the  same  ends. 

The  clinging  embrace  of  Penelope's  arms  remained 
with  the  Duchess  all  the  while  she  made  hurried,  but 
elaborate,  preparations  for  the  journey  to  Blythedown. 
And  it  caused  her  to  realise  afresh  her  own  cleverness 
in  having  pounced  (no  other  word  expressed  it)  on  the 
opportunity  of  breaking  off  her  son's  engagement  for 
him,  which  the  scandal  of  the  Great  Bronze  Vase  had 
given  to  her.  Penelope — and  how  like  a  child,  a 

M 


178  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

pretty  child  to  be  loved  and  petted,  she  had  looked  in 
bed — was  just  the  daughter  she  would  have  chosen,  and 
next  to  a  mother's  right  and  pleasure  in  her,  she  ranked 
the  prospective  pleasure  of  becoming  her  mother-in-law. 
Colin  ought  to  be  very  thankful  to  her,  she  thought,  so 
wrapped  in  Penelope's  affairs  as  to  be  for  the  moment 
oblivious  to  how  much  more  than  this  she  would  at 
any  time  have  been  willing  to  do  for  Colin's  sake. 

And  he  had  not,  she  further  reflected,  made  quite  all 
the  use  of  his  freedom  she  might  have  expected.  She 
had  found  this  unlooked-for  delay,  moreover,  a  little 
exasperating,  although  she  admitted,  but  as  it  were 
below  the  surface,  that  for  the  mere  look  of  the  thing  it 
was  doubtless  just  as  well. 

"Still  I  don't  know  that  I  can  go  on  waiting 
indefinitely,"  she  told  herself,  and  further  promised,  as 
a  last  resource,  the  enlightenment  of  Colin,  for  his  en- 
couragement, as  to  her  own  part  in  the  matter.  It  is 
not  unlikely  that  she  found  some  gratification  even  in 
the  promise,  for  she  had  certainly  kept  silence  against 
all  precedent. 

And  now  this  illness  of  Penelope's  Aunt,  obliging 
Penelope  to  leave  London,  spelt  further  delay.  And 
beyond  the  regret  of  a  very  sympathetic  nature  (strictly 
limited  in  its  workings  to  those  she  specially  liked)  the 
Duchess  regretted  it  for  that  cause  also.  Unless  indeed 
Penelope's  absence  had  the  effect  of  spurring  Colin, 
that  being  a  virtue  often  claimed  for  absence.  Or  was 
it  Penelope  who  needed  the  spur  ?  she  wondered,  with 
her  mind  wandering  to  the  Poet,  and  suspicions  of  him 
which  had  sometimes  ruffled  her  complacency.  But  she 
put  them  aside  as  she  had  done  before.  She  never 


PENELOPE  KETUKNS  TO  BLYTHEDOWN    179 

could  believe  in  much  outside  her  own  strong  wishes 
when  she  was  wishing  for  her  son's  welfare.  Nor  did 
she  let  such  thoughts  interfere  with  her  affectionate 
packing  off  of  Penelope,  or  the  warm  good-bye  she  gave 
her. 

"  I  shall  want  you  back  at  the  very  first  opportunity," 
she  said.  "  And  I  don't  really  think  things  can  be  as 
bad  as  they  sound."  She  even  managed  to  look  this 
hopeful  view  (of  news  brought  by  telegram!)  while 
Penelope  was  waving  to  her.  And  that,  in  the  Duchess, 
amounted  to  a  miracle. 

The  wallflowers  were  out.  The  border  to  the  right  of 
the  trim  path  leading  to  the  porch  at  Blythedown 
House  was  ablaze  with  them,  in  every  deep  tone  of 
brown  and  yellow,  flaunting  alone  or  co-mingling 
happily. 

Penelope  knew  they  were  there,  but  she  did  not  see 
them.  She  ran  up  the  path  too  quickly  to  see  anything, 
even  whether  the  blinds  were  up  or  down,  which  was 
the  very  thing  she  was  avoiding  the  sight  of.  But  the 
wallflowers'  sweet  scent  followed  her  into  the  hall. 

It  was  easy  to  reach  the  interior  of  Blythedown 
House  to  those  who  knew,  for  the  front  door  was  never 
bolted,  except  at  night,  and  all  day  long  there  was  only 
the  handle  to  turn.  Penelope  turned  it  as  unfalteringly 
as  usual,  crossed  the  hall  in  a  second,  and  then  paused 
helplessly.  She  was  standing  just  outside  the  half- 
opened  drawing-room  door,  and  she  stood  there  as  a 
stranger  in  her  own  home.  For  she  had  never  entered 
that  home  before  with  fear  in  her  heart ;  it  made  a 
stranger  of  her. 


180  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

But  presently  curiosity  superseded  fear,  at  any  rate 
for  the  moment.  Measured  breathing,  almost  amounting 
to  a  succession  of  gentle  snores,  fell  on  her  ear,  and 
before  she  had  quite  realised  her  intention,  she  was 
inside  the  room  to  find  out  for  herself  who  the  sleeper 
might  be.  Her  entrance  awoke  Cousin  Jane,  who  had 
evidently  kept  watch  for  her  from  the  window  and  had 
been  overcome  with  drowsiness  in  her  chair. 

"  There  ! — I  am  thankful  to  see  you,  Penelope," 
exclaimed  Cousin  Jane.  "I  was  very  nearly  asleep," 
she  added. 

"  Tell  me  ? — please  tell  me  ? "  cried  Penelope. 

"  She  is  quiet  now,  and  Susan  is  with  her."  (Susan 
had  come  with  Penelope  as  her  nurse,  and  had  re- 
mained ever  since  in  Auntie's  service).  "I  am  not 
sure  that  she  is  conscious,  but  at  least  we  may  be 
thankful  that  she  is  quiet,"  began  Cousin  Jane  in 
explanation,  but  Penelope,  relieved  of  her  worst  dread, 
interrupted  her. 

"  Why  didn't  you  send  for  me  sooner  ? "  she  blazed. 
"  Oh,  you  ought  to  have  sent  for  me  sooner ! " 

"  My  dear,  it  was  so  sudden."  Cousin  Jane  stood  up 
to  emphasize  her  defence,  shaking  out  her  crumpled 
skirt  with  an  old-maidenly  instinct  of  carefulness,  but 
unknowingly.  Her  whole  bearing  spoke  of  anxiety,  of 
watching,  and  of  accustomed  sleep  deferred.  Penelope 
noted  it  all,  and  her  sudden  anger  died  away.  She 
began  to  tremble  ;  trying  vainly  to  steady  herself  with 
a  hand  on  the  back  of  a  chair. 

"  It  was  so  terribly  sudden."  Penelope  heard  Cousin 
Jane's  habitual  drawl,  only  slightly  quickened  even 
now,  as  though  it  came  from  afar.  "A  heart  attack, 


PENELOPE  EETUKNS  TO  BLYTHEDOWN    181 

such  as  she  has  had  before,  only  more  serious.  Susan 
did  all  she  had  been  instructed  to  do  on  previous 
occasions,  and  I  was  able  to  help  her  a  little.  It  was 
unfortunate  we  could  not  get  the  doctor  for  some  time 
— he  was  with  a  case  he  could  not  leave — but  he 
assures  us  his  coming  earlier  would  have  made  no  real 
difference.  It  was  not  until  after  he  came  that  we 
quite  realised  how  serious — or  had  time  to  consider — 
and  then,  you  see,  it  was  too  late  to  telegraph  until 
this  morning." 

"  But  I  couldn't  have  done  anything,"  said  Penelope. 
"  It  is  only  that  I  love  her." 

Then  the  trembling  began  again.  It  seemed  as  if 
Penelope,  usually  so  self-reliant,  was  to  fail  hopelessly 
before  this,  the  biggest  emergency  of  her  life. 

"Tell  me?"  she  cried  piteously.  "Tell  me  the 
rest  ? " 

But  Cousin  Jane,  inspired  for  the  occasion,  did  better. 
She  stroked  Penelope's  hand  gently  as  it  clutched  the 
chair  back,  putting  one  arm  about  her.  Penelope's 
head  rested  on  Cousin  Jane's  angular  shoulder,  and  the 
trembling  almost  ceased. 

"We  are  in  God's  hands,"  said  Cousin  Jane,  with  an 
earnest  conviction  which  illumined  the  simple  words. 
"  I  think  she  is  waiting  for  you,  poor  little  Penelope," 
she  added  softly. 

"  Then  take  me  to  her,"  said  little  Penelope  grown 
strong  again. 

But  as  she  followed  Cousin  Jane  out  of  the  familiar 
room,  the  world  and  the  little  things  of  which  it  is  made 
up  for  all  of  us,  came  back  to  her,  drawing  her  unwilling 
attention  to  its  unfamiliar  aspect.  Disordered,  neglected 


182  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

so  it  appeared  already  ;  and  only  yesterday  Auntie  was 
sitting  there  and  everything  was  as  usual.  She  saw 
the  wallflowers  for  the  first  time,  a  bowlful  of  them  on 
a  table,  drooping  and  faded.  And  a  thought  came  to 
her  of  how  the  Poet  would  have  seized  on  that  to 
shudder  at — dead  flowers  in  Auntie's  drawing-room. 

But  she  put  the  fancy  from  her  as  she  entered  the 
silent  room  where  Auntie  now  lay. 

Auntie  knew  her  at  once.  That  was  one  of  Penelope's 
best  comforts  afterwards. 

"I  have  come  back  to  you,  Auntie  darling,"  she 
whispered.  Then  a  sudden  necessity  came  to  her  to 
fight  the  dread  thing  which  hung  over  them.  "Just 
as  I  went,"  she  said,  "and  for  always." 

Auntie  was  pleased.  "  Yes,  dear  one,  yes,"  she  said 
faintly.  "  It  is  only  a  little  while,  and  I  could  ill  spare 
you." 

Sometimes  they  thought  she  wandered.  "  If  I  seem 
to  have  acted  wrongly,  my  darling  will  know  it  was  out 
of  my  love  for  her,"  she  would  say.  Penelope  was 
implored  to  kiss  her  in  forgiveness  for  some  unexplained 
deed,  more  than  once.  She  did  it  readily;  tearlessly 
even. 

"  You  will  find  out  all  about  it,"  this  also  Auntie  said 
several  times.  "  In  the  big  bronze  vase  in  the  lumber 
room.  You  know,  I  taught  you  its  secret  when  you 
were  a  child."  Although  she  did  not  gather  what  she 
was  to  look  for,  Penelope  promised  to  make  this  search ; 
again  without  flinching. 

But,  although  it  was  a  time  overcrowded  with  events 
to  look  back  to,  it  all  happened  very  quickly  really. 
As  trouble  gripped  ever  harder  at  their  hearts  it  loosened 
its  hold  on  Auntie. 


PENELOPE  RETURNS  TO  BLYTHEDOWN    183 

At  last  she  was  free  of  it  all. 

"  Now  she  will  be  able  to  see  me ! "  said  Penelope, 
seizing  for  her  first  consolation  on  the  realising  of 
Auntie's  most  frequently  expressed  ambition,  and  Cousin 
Jane,  lifting  her  head — bowed  in  prayer  for  the  depart- 
ing— knew  that  it  was  true. 


CHAPTEE   XXVI 

PENELOPE'S   INHERITANCE 

THE  days  which  immediately  followed  Auntie's  death 
proved,  in  passing,  far  longer  than  any  which  had 
hitherto  entered  into  Penelope's  experience.  Strange, 
fitful  days ;  bringing  many  crowded  hours  when  every- 
thing, even  sorrow  itself,  seemed  to  give  way  before  a 
distressingly  irrelevant  rush  of  business  :  to  be  followed 
by  dragging,  utterly  empty  hours,  which  lent  no  crutch 
to  the  weary  climbing  they  presented. 

It  appeared  to  Penelope  afterwards  that  every  incident 
in  all  her  past  life,  since  first  it  began  to  blend  with 
Auntie's,  came  vividly  back  to  her  in  those  long  days 
and  longer  nights,  to  emphasize  in  endless  procession 
the  greatness  of  her  bereavement.  Nothing  seemed  too 
small  or  trivial  for  the  purpose,  indeed  the  smallest 
things  would  often  wring  the  deepest  pang  from  grief. 
Even  Auntie's  loss  sometimes  seemed  less  to  Penelope, 
than  the  loss  to  herself,  of  the  many  little  things  it  had 
always  been  possible  to  do  for  her.  The  dead  woman's 
helplessness  when  living,  formed  her  surest  claim  on 
constant  remembrance,  as  it  had  formed  her  nearest  tie 
to  Penelope's  tender  heart  in  life. 

Those  were  days  too  for  discovery.     One  of  the  things 


184 


PENELOPE'S   INHEEITANCE  185 

Penelope  found  out  at  this  time  was  the  impossibility 
of  really  dedicating  every  thought  to  even  the  most 
tenderly  loved.  The  thought  of  the  Poet  was  not  to 
be  altogether  set  aside,  regret  because  of  him  not  to  be 
long  displaced,  even  while  a  life  just  departed  surely 
claimed  the  undivided  first-fruits  of  sorrow.  All  the 
while  Auntie's  body,  white  and  still,  lay  in  their  keeping, 
Penelope  had  to  fight  a  phantom  of  disloyalty,  which 
wore  the  likeness  of  the  Poet  and  refused  banishment. 
When  his  note  of  condolence  reached  her — a  few  halting 
sentences  dictated  by  the  man  rather  than  the  poet,  and 
the  dearer  for  that — the  tension  of  this  unequal  warfare 
grew  almost  unbearable.  She  would  not  allow  herself 
to  write  a  wholly  superfluous  answer,  yet  the  time  she 
spent  wording  unwritten  replies  became  her  constant 
reproach.  She  burnt  the  note,  the  only  scrap  of  his 
writing  she  had  ever  given  to  the  flames ;  but  even  while 
the  paper  smouldered,  a  retentive  memory  mocked  the 
sacrifice. 

Then  there  were  other  things,  more  essentially 
the  outcome  of  the  busy  hours,  which  took  on  import- 
ance for  her  at  this  time.  The  wordy  fussiness  of 
Cousin  Jane,  the  narrowness  of  her  many  prejudices, 
became  newly  irritating  in  the  face  of  her  latest 
conviction  of  duty.  Cousin  Jane  had  no  fixed  home, 
and  a  very  small  share  indeed  of  the  things  needful  to 
make  any  spot  homelike.  And  Penelope  would  be 
companionless :  the  way  out  of  two  difficulties  lay  too 
plain  to  be  mistaken.  She  quite  made  up  her  mind  to 
ask  Cousin  Jane  to  make  her  home  with  her,  when  the 
necessity  for  actual  words  arose  ;  but  the  prospect  held 
less  and  less  of  attraction,  as  Cousin  Jane  during  those 


186  THE  POET  AND   PENELOPE 

sad  days  persistently  wrapped  even  her  kindest  acts 
(and  most  of  her  acts  bore  that  interpretation  some- 
where about  them)  in  thick  coverings  of  digressive 
fidgetiness. 

One  of  Penelope's  earliest  acts  after  Auntie's  death, 
when  unaccustomed  sorrow  gave  her  space  for  action, 
was  to  turn  out  the  faded  wallflowers  which  had 
greeted  her  in  the  drawing-room,  and  to  refill  the  vases 
from  the  prodigal  wealth  of  blossom  in  the  garden.  It 
was  the  first  thing  she  could  think  of  as  likely  to  please 
Auntie,  if  Auntie  had  been  there,  and  it  was  the  first  of 
many  similar  things  which  Cousin  Jane  took  exception 
t(X  White  flowers  upstairs,  in  the  shaded  room  of  death, 
she  found  necessary,  as  being  almost,  if  not  entirely, 
part  of  her  Church's  ritual  for  such  seasons,  but  gay 
brown  and  yellow  flowers  downstairs  she  saw  no 
warrant  for,  and  if  they  must  be  there  at  all,  the  dead 
blooms  left  undisturbed  would  have  better  fitted  her 
feeling  of  seemliness.  And  that  is  only  one  instance 
of  their  diverging  views  of  life,  which  Penelope  was 
summoning  the  courage  to  unite  if  possible,  by  daily 
companionship  in  the  future. 

But  while  Auntie's  frail  body  remained  still  in  her 
hushed  home,  Penelope  could  not  bring  herself  to  even 
partially  fill  her  place.  So  she  left  the  wording  of  the 
invitation  until  after  the  funeral.  It  would  be  easier 
then,  she  thought. 

And  that  day  came  at  last,  when  all  that  was 
mortal  of  Auntie  left  Blythedown  House  and  left 
Penelope,  for  the  long,  solitary  rest  in  Blythedown's 
quiet  churchyard.  Amongst  the  many  dim  forms  in 
the  church,  Penelope  caught  sight  of  the  Poet,  but  he 


PENELOPE'S  INHERITANCE  187 

left  as  he  had  come  without  attempting  to  get  speech 
with  her,  and  she  thanked  him  in  her  heart  for  that  more 
than  anything.  She  knew  she  would  always  be  glad 
not  to  have  spent  any  part  of  that  day  on  the  man  she 
loved,  which  was  the  last  she  might  ever  give  to 
Auntie. 

No  one  seems  to  have  seriously  considered  Penelope's 
future,  unless  it  was  to  consider  it  assured  in  modest 
comfort.  It  was  simply  taken  for  granted  that  Auntie's 
love  would  spread  beyond  the  limit  of  her  own  life,  to 
keep  care  still  from  the  girl  who  had  been  her  first  care 
always.  As  Penelope  had  once  told  the  Poet,  her 
money  affairs  comprised  the  one  subject  on  which 
Auntie  held  consistently  in  reserve.  Even  Penelope, 
who  for  so  long  had  taken  upon  herself  the  actual 
management  of  Auntie's  income,  had  never  been  present 
at  the  business  portion  of  any  of  the  half-yearly  visits 
which,  in  concession  to  her  blindness  and  the  difficult 
matter  it  made  of  letter-writing,  her  lawyer  and  man  of 
business  had  been  in  the  habit  of  paying  her. 

So  Penelope  was  as  ignorant  as  any  one  else  as  to 
what  the  Man  of  Business  had  in  store  for  them  now. 
Was  as  entirely  unprepared  for  the  surprise  it  was  his 
duty  to  launch  suddenly  upon  them. 

His  unpleasant  duty  as  he  said  more  than  once,  when 
he  subsequently  shook  Penelope's  hand  in  farewell. 
He  had  watched  her  growing  up,  and  he  took  an  almost 
vengeful  look  over  his  shoulder  at  the  spare,  old- 
maidenly  form  of  Cousin  Jane.  The  inheritor,  accord- 
ing to  Auntie's  will,  of  every  penny  she  was  possessed 
of  at  her  death. 


188  THE  POET  AND   PENELOPE 

Auntie's  will  was  very  short,  and  it  made  no  mention 
at  all  of  her  dear  niece,  Penelope.  Her  personal 
property  she  left,  without  apology  or  explanation,  or 
adjective  of  affection,  to  her  only  other  near  relative, 
her  first  cousin,  Jane. 

The  Man  of  Business  filled  in  the  details  to  the  best 
of  his  ability.  Auntie  had  put  her  affairs  into  his 
hands,  it  seemed,  rather  more  than  a  year  after 
Penelope  first  came  to  her,  on  the  death,  as  he  under- 
stood, of  the  family  lawyer.  There  was  an  inherited 
fund  which  brought  in  an  almost  unvarying  yearly 
income.  On  that  she  had  been  living,  when  she  first 
came  within  his  knowledge,  and  she  had  continued  to 
do  so  to  the  end.  There  was  other  property,  which 
had  been  of  small  value  as  he  first  knew  it,  and  had 
continued  unimportant,  well-nigh  worthless,  for  some 
time.  He  gave  a  date  tallying  with  Penelope's  tenth 
year.  From  that  time  this  property  had  continued  to 
rise  rapidly  and  unceasingly  in  value.  He  gave  them 
a  sum  for  its  present  worth,  which  seemed  almost 
incredible,  taking  into  consideration  Auntie's  quiet 
manner  of  living.  But  not  a  penny,  the  Man  of 
Business  further  explained,  had  ever  been  touched.  It 
had  been  allowed  to  accumulate  year  after  year. 

On  the  bare  face  of  things  with  the  result,  that 
Auntie  had  died  a  rich  woman,  and  left  her  adopted 
niece  penniless. 

The  situation  seemed  too  bewildering  for  even  an 
attempt  at  smoothing  it  over.  Cousin  Jane,  who  was, 
it  must  be  admitted,  almost  more  distressed  than  any 
one  by  her  own  turn  of  fortune,  hinted  constantly  at 
some  mistake.  But  the  short,  concise  will  hardly  left 


PENELOPE'S   INHEEITANCE  189 

room  for  error.  Left  no  room  for  it,  according  to  the 
Man  of  Business,  growing  visibly  ruffled.  It  was  just 
six  years  old,  he  added,  in  confirming  its  legality.  And 
the  only  will  his  late  client  had  made. 

As  for  Penelope,  she  was  too  stunned  for  conjecture. 
To  keep  Auntie's  memory  resolutely  free  from  all 
suspicion  of  blame,  strained  her  mind's  energies  to  the 
uttermost  for  the  present.  It  was  as  she  went  wearily 
to  bed,  that  her  eye  fell  on  the  faded  jewel-case  Auntie 
had  given  her  when  she  went  to  Town.  At  least  she 
had  its  contents,  was  her  thought. 

Hardly  conscious  of  her  own  action,  she  opened  the 
lid  and  noticed  now,  for  the  first  time,  a  flat  pocket 
fitted  closely  into  it.  It  was  stuck  fast.  She  prised  it 
open  with  difficulty  (and  her  nail  scissors)  to  discover 
a  small  card  as  its  sole  contents. 

There  was  faded  writing  on  the  card,  in  a  hand  which 
never  could  have  been  Auntie's.  All  the  jewellery 
Penelope  had  found  in  the  case  was  informally 
catalogued  here,  with  the  pearls  to  head  the  list.  "  My 
darling  husband's  first  gift  to  me  after  our  marriage," 
the  faded  writing  commented.  And  other  things  had 
their  value  enhanced  in  a  manner  similarly  sweet.  The 
list  was  signed  too,  and  dated,  "Penelope  Eeiner," 
Penelope  read.  Her  mother's  name,  and  the  date  was 
the  year  of  her  own  birth. 

So  even  these  trinkets  had  not  come  to  her  from 
Auntie.  Penelope  still  clung  so  desperately  for 
comfort  to  the  only  mothering  she  remembered,  that 
for  the  time  this  discovery  presented  itself  as  the 
crowning  calamity  of  all. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE  DEVICE  OF  THE  LETTERS 

PENELOPE  had  not  made  a  social  success  in  London  for 
nothing,  and  one  of  the  first  things  resulting  was  the 
rapidity  with  which  any  news  concerning  her  spread 
itself  to  her  friends  there.  Certainly  she  did  not  tell 
the  Poet  of  the  poverty  to  which  she  was  left,  yet  the 
Poet  seemed  to  hear  of  it  as  soon  as  any  one. 

It  is  not  to  be  denied  that  Penelope  would  have 
liked  to  write  to  him,  telling  him  all  about  it  for  her 
own  heart's  ease.  That  was  a  constant  longing  with 
her,  to  tell  him  all  the  pleasures  and  troubles  which 
came  to  her.  She  knew  very  well,  and  a  good  deal 
from  experience,  that  in  almost  every  case  he  would 
find  the  wrong  word  with  which  to  meet  her  con- 
fidences ;  first  of  all,  at  any  rate.  With  a  little  prompt- 
ing he  might,  and  probably  would,  give  her  just  what 
he  found  her  wanting,  but  not  because  he  felt  either  for 
or  with  her  to  any  great  extent ;  but  rather  because  he 
was  naturally  clever  at  clothing  an  idea  presented  to 
him  by  some  one  else. 

As  a  poet  he  was  too  cloud-wrapped,  as  a  man  too 
self-absorbed,  to  be  in  an  ordinary  way  the  ideal 
confidant.  But  Penelope  only  wanted  to  be  constantly 

190 


THE  DEVICE  OF  THE  LETTEES    191 

near  him,  in  spirit  if  no  homelier  fashion  was  possible. 
And  what  she  would  have  obtained  (or,  more  probably, 
would  not  have  obtained)  did  not  weigh  with  her. 
She  loved  him  as  he  was,  with  no  proselytizing  views  to 
mar  her  appreciation.  "  I  shouldn't  like  you  any  better 
if  you  were  nicer,"  she  had  once  told  him.  A  doubtful 
compliment,  which  had  resulted  on  his  part  in  quite 
ten  minutes  of  sustained  moodiness.  But  it  was  true  ; 
now  as  ever. 

As  it  was  also  true  (though  the  connection  is  not 
obvious)  that  the  Poet  had  already  heard  of  her  last 
trouble,  to  be  considerably  concerned  thereby. 

The  Poet  was  alone,  and  at  home  in  what  he  was 
pleased  to  call  his  "  diggings."  He  was  seated  at  his 
writing-table  and  writing-paper  confronted  him,  but  at 
present,  except  apparently  just  to  make  a  memorandum 
of  the  day  of  the  week,  he  had  not  taken  advantage  of 
that  fact.  He  was  lost  in  thought  of  a  plainly  complex 
character. 

This  sitting-room  of  his,  which  Penelope  had  so  often 
thought  about  and  never  seen,  was  not  one  to  strike  an 
enquiring  mind,  at  first  sight,  in  the  light  of  a  safe  index 
to  the  tastes  of  its  occupant.  It  was  very  like  dozens 
of  other  rooms  of  its  class,  except  perhaps  that  it  was 
more  bare  than  most.  Evidently  he  did  not  deem 
any  especially  prepared  atmosphere  necessary  for  the 
welfare  of  his  calling,  and  Penelope  might  have  learnt 
a  lesson,  which  would  have  pleased  her,  from  the  Poet's 
sitting-room. 

Books  there  were,  shelved  and  lying  about  in  goodly 
numbers  (books  bought  by  the  plain  faces  of  them  for 
reading  and  not  for  their  bindings  or  date  of  issue),  but 


192  THE  POET  AND   PENELOPE 

she  knew  him  as  a  lover  of  books,  and  would  not  have 
considered  him  less  fitted  for  loving  her  on  that  account 
alone.  And  then  she  herself  formed  almost  the  only 
other  ornament.  From  three  frames,  set  amongst  a 
medley  of  odds  and  ends  on  the  mantelpiece,  she 
looked  down  on  him,  and  how  many  an  inspiration 
she  had  thus  helped  him  to,  only  the  Poet  knew.  (No, 
on  second  thoughts,  it  is  more  probable  that  even  he 
had  forgotten.) 

Penelope  took  well ;  the  pictures  were  lifelike.  The 
first  Penelope  of  the  abbreviated  skirt  and  sweeping 
hair  had  the  first  place  of  honour  in  the  centre  still. 
Penelope  in  her  first  long  dress  and  Penelope  of  this 
present  year,  guarded  on  either  side  the  girl  who  used 
to  be.  She  had  frequently  teazed  him  to  tell  her 
where  he  bestowed  her  three  photographs,  but  he  had 
as  resolutely  refused  to  be  cajoled  into  telling. 

There  had  always  been  a  definite  limit — a  thing  which 
she  had  always  seen — to  what  the  Poet  was  willing  to 
tell  her ;  but  to-day  he  was  seeking  words  in  which  to 
indefinitely  extend  that  limit  in  the  future,  and  there- 
fore his  hesitation  in  taking  up  his  pen.  Yet  words, 
especially  written  words,  came  to  him  easily ;  too  easily 
often,  and  that  gave  him  pause.  For  once  he  had  seen 
his  thoughts  in  black  and  white  it  hurt  him  to  alter 
anything,  and  he  was  so  greatly  anxious  to  put  this 
matter  before  her  in  the  best  way  in  his  power.  His 
poetical  honour  was  involved  as  touching  himself  only 
(so  he  thought,  thinking  wrongly),  but  for  the  touching 
of  Penelope  his  whole  manhood  was  astir. 

He  walked  wonderingly  to  a  glass  once,  half  expecting 
to  find  himself  changed,  even  outwardly.  For  years  he 


THE  DEVICE  OF  THE  LETTEES        193 

had  been  shilly-shallying  (his  expression)  on  the  brink 
of  a  decision  which  he  had  taken  once  for  all  now. 
Such  an  event  was  surely  enough  to  mark  a  man 
for  life,  a  man  of  his  careful  stamp  particularly  ?  But 
apparently  he  could  not  detect  anything  unusual  in  the 
good-looking  face  the  glass  showed  him,  and  he  turned 
to  the  table  again.  To  do  himself  justice  on  the  paper 
was  what  remained  to  him,  and  time  was  flying. 

For  he  had  made  up  his  mind  at  last — he  would 
marry  Penelope.  For  custom's  sake,  being  something 
of  a  stickler  for  custom,  he  duly  added  his  "  if  she  will 
have  me,"  but  the  memory  of  that  night  at  Lady  Marian 
Markham's  made  a  plaything  of  doubt.  So  much  so, 
that  if  he  had  not  been  extremely  fond  of  such  play- 
things, he  could  have  banished  it  at  will — a  breath  from 
his  common-sense  quarter  and  it  had  readily  flown 

His  new  resolution  brought  him  a  strange  feeling  of 
inconsequent  youthf ulness :  he  had  walked  so  long 
in  the  confined  shade  of  his  safe  side  that  the  ex- 
hilarating air  of  freedom  he  was  breathing  now  was 
almost  too  fiercely  strong,  although  so  delightful.  Just 
the  thought  that  he  of  all  men  should  have  chosen  this 
darkest  turn  in  Penelope's  affairs  as  his  moment  for 
deciding  in  her  favour,  caused  him  to  blossom  out  into  a 
wide,  new  set  of  reasons  for  keen  self-appreciation, 
which  quite,  for  the  moment,  blinded  him  to  future 
cares  bound,  by  his  whole  creed,  to  follow.  It  was 
perhaps  characteristic  of  the  man  that  he  was  able  to 
realise  his  keenest  possible  pleasure  alone,  and  to  know 
at  the  time  that  it  was  so  ;  that  nothing  which  might 
come  of  it  could  rob  this  hour  of  its  supremacy  by 
comparison. 

8 


194  THE  POET  AND   PENELOPE 

For  it  was  not  a  necessity  with  the  Poet  to  close  his 
arms  round  the  beloved  object  before  he  could  feel  her 
his,  or  lose  himself  in  love's  raptures. 

But  even  as  a  poet  he  could  not  defy  his  own 
intentions,  when  wrought  to  this  pitch,  for  ever.  At 
last  he  settled  to  his  writing,  and  had  soon  made  short 
work  of  an  equally  short  note.  In  it  he  begged  per- 
mission to  visit  Blythedown  and  Penelope,  or  rather 
gave  notice  of  his  determination  to  do  so,  on  the 
following  day.  "  I  have  something  to  tell  you,  and  I 
cannot  rest  until  it  is  told  and  your  mind  concerning  it 
made  clear  to  me,"  he  wrote,  and  gave  no  nearer  hint  of 
his  meaning.  All  the  rest  was  simply  ceremony ;  the 
whole  tone  unrelieved  mannishness. 

He  put  it  into  an  envelope,  meditatively.  But  he 
did  not  proceed  to  fasten  it  down  or  direct  it.  Before 
he  had  time  for  these  details,  indeed,  such  a  quickening 
sentence  was  pushing  its  way  out  of  his  inner  mists, 
that  in  a  moment  more  he  was  half-unconsciously 
transmitting  it  to  paper.  Like  most  of  the  uncontrolled 
products  of  his  brain  it  took  his  heart  also  by  storm  : 
he  could  not  deny  its  right  to  be  decently  followed  to  a 
fitting  conclusion.  Now  he  was  no  longer  master,  but 
the  slave,  and  before  he  found  release  he  had  written 
Penelope  her  first  love-letter. 

Only  when  he  read  it  through  did  he  understand  to 
the  full  what  that  meant;  how  he  had  stepped  in 
the  act  blindfold  over  one  of  his  barriers.  He  had 
written  love  poems  before ;  he  paused  at  that  thought 
in  self-abasement,  as  for  past  sins.  For  here  the  real 
thing,  in  prose,  was  arisen  to  make  sport  of  their 
feebleness  with  its  strength. 


THE  DEVICE  OF  THE  LETTERS        195 

He  read  it  again.  "  Dear  " — he  had  written  in  one 
place — "  and  to  think  of  the  thousands  of  women, 
all  worthy,  who  have  lived  to  be  crowned  by  their 
lovers  with  that  little  word,  since  the  first  woman 
wore  it  at  the  beginning  of  days  !  And  to  think  that 
I  am  writing  it  for  you  now,  a  new  thing,  burnt  into 
pure  radiance  amidst  the  uplifting  incense  of  ages ! 
So  I,  even  I  am  left  to  bring  it  to  its  best  usage, 
bringing  it  heart-laden  to  you.  Language  cannot 
better  it.  All-sufficient,  it  enfolds  you.  While  you 
breathe — though  you  cease  to  breathe,  being  immortal 
— it  has  you  in  bonds.  Whatever  your  will  is  I  may 
not  withdraw  it  while  I  too  have  breath.  But  your 
will,  to  clasp  it  to  you,  what  might  not  that  make 
possible  ?  Ah !  my  dear !  You  have  the  answer  in 
keeping ;  I  am  but  seeking  it  blindly." 

Thus  reading,  he  so  regretted  his  first  letter  that  in 
the  end  he  could  not  abide  by  it.  Yet  neither  could 
he  bring  himself  to  destroy  it,  lest,  after  all,  it  might 
be  the  more  appropriate  way  of  reaching  the  practical 
Penelope.  And  so  at  last,  it  being  close  on  post-time, 
he  hit  on  a  device  for  setting  the  decision  beyond  his 
own  control. 

He  put  the  second  letter  also  into  an  envelope, 
cunningly  adding  blank  sheets  to  the  first  to  make 
them  both  of  one  weight,  and  having  fastened  both, 
he  deliberately  shuffled  them  until  in  all  honesty  he 
could  not  decide  between  them.  Then  he  put  it  to 
chance,  tossing  gravely;  heads  the  right  hand,  tails 
the  left.  And  thus  won  for  the  left-hand  letter  the 
advantage  of  being  quickly  addressed  and  posted ;  speed 
being  now  imperative. 


196  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

He  played  the  game  conscientiously  out ;  thorough- 
ness was  not  a  thing  easily  killed  in  him,  even  by  desire. 
He  left  the  remaining  letter  untouched,  determined 
only  to  know  in  the  morning,  at  the  very  time  Penelope 
was  reading  it,  what  would  greet  his  eyes. 

Speculation  kept  him  on  the  rack,  but  the  torment, 
with  its  cure  at  his  elbow,  never  became  unbearable, 
and  grew  less  keen  in  time.  At  last  the  thought  of 
so  soon  seeing  Penelope  put  all  other  thoughts  to 
flight,  and  he  lay  through  the  night,  between  sleeping 
and  waking,  thrilled  with  that. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE  POET  PROPOSES 

YET  the  Poet  was  wide  awake  in  good  time,  reaching 
out  for  his  letter  (placed  overnight  conveniently),  that 
he  might  learn  for  certain  how  chance  had  befriended 
him.  When  he  found  that  Penelope  had  her  love-letter 
safe,  he  also  knew  how  set  he  had  been  on  her  having 
it.  He  started  to  dress  in  the  best  of  good  spirits, 
cheered  by  an  omen  much  to  his  mind.  He  was  still 
stirred  by  gusty  feelings  of  rashness  now  and  then,  but 
as  yet  they  only  brushed  round  about  him  like  a  keen 
wind  on  a  sunshiny  spring  day ;  when  it  seems  to  be 
lending  a  half  share  to  delight,  and  all  its  talents  for 
cold-giving  are  hidden.  For  the  most  part  the  present, 
and  for  once  in  his  life,  overmastered  all  thought  for  the 
future  in  the  Poet. 

He  reached  Blythedown  also  in  good  time,  that  is 
to  say,  as  quickly  as  possible.  The  pleasant  walk  from 
the  station  to  Blythedown  House  was  a  short  one,  he 
was  soon  there  ;  as  soon  almost  as  he  could  wish. 
Something  told  him  that  he  was  quite  sure  of  finding 
Penelope  in  the  drawing-room,  and  he  walked  straight 
in  unannounced — to  find  her  there. 

She  was  standing  on  the  hearthrug,  very  slim  and 


198  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

straight  in  her  black  dress.  The  Poet  had  never  seen 
her  in  black  before,  and  he  thought  it  accounted  for 
her  looking  pale;  nearly  colourless  in  that  colourless 
room.  Then  as  he  faced  her,  the  remembrance  flashed 
across  him  that  he  had  only  written  his  sympathy  with 
her  in  her  recent  bereavement,  and  had  never  put 
spoken  words  to  it.  He  was  glad  to  remember  it  in 
good  time,  being  always  particular  in  such  matters. 
He  proceeded  to  do  the  difficult  thing  as  well  as  it 
could  be  done,  and  she  met  him  with  quick,  tremulous 
gratitude.  So  for  a  time  he  and  Penelope  set  the 
memory  of  Auntie  between  them  to  keep  themselves 
from  each  other. 

But  it  could  not  last.  The  Poet  leant  towards  her. 
"  Dear,"  he  said  simply,  "  I  have  come  for  my  answer ; 
what  is  it  ? " 

He  was  so  sure  he  knew.  Penelope  read  in  his  face 
how  sure  he  was,  and  winced  at  the  sight. 

"  What  answer  ? "  she  hesitated,  in  a  voice  he  hardly 
recognised.  If  he  wondered,  his  look  was  no  longer 
transparent.  And  he  could  afford  to  be  patient  with 
all  life  before  him. 

"  The  answer  to  my  letter ;  to  my  love.  The  only 
true  answer  is  your  love  in  return — can  you  answer  me 
truly,  Penelope  ? "  he  asked,  but  Penelope  stood  before 
him  silent. 

Her  silence  at  such  a  time  he  thought  might  very 
well  be  taken  for  shyness,  so  at  least  he  chose  to  take 
it,  although,  truth  to  tell,  his  past  experience  of  her 
gave  him  no  strong  grounds  for  doing  so.  To  meet  this 
strange  mood  in  her,  he  deliberately  put  the  thing 
into  the  plainest  words  possible,  with  a  characteristic 


THE  POET  PEOPOSES  199 

abandonment  of  all  poetical  flourishes  in  his  hour  of 
need. 

"  Will  you  marry  me,  Penelope  ? "  he  asked. 

He  saw  her  face  flush  and  pale  again.  "  I  cannot," 
she  said,  speaking  as  baldly  as  he  had  spoken.  She  had 
met  that  question  (but  always  more  romantically  dressed) 
a  hundred  times  in  her  thoughts,  in  a  hundred  con- 
clusive ways,  but  she  had  forgotten  every  one  of  them 
now.  She  was  left  to  drift  helplessly . 

He  misunderstood  her  of  set  purpose,  but  with  more 
thoroughness  than  he  was  at  present  aware. 

"Perhaps,"  he  said,  "you  think  I  should  not  come 
to  you  yet,  at  this  sad  time,  that  I  ought  to  wait " 

She  purposely  took  up  misunderstanding  too,  and 
interrupted  him  with  it. 

"  You  have  not  heard,  I  think,"  she  said,  "  that  I  am 
left  quite  poor.  That  I  haven't  anything  of  my  own  in 
the  world " 

It  was  his  turn  to  interrupt,  and  in  doing  so  he 
utterly  ignored  the  sting  in  her  words. 

"  I  have  heard :  that  is  not  why  I  ask  you — you 
must  believe  it — but  it  is  why  I  ask  you  now.  I 
love  you,  Penelope,  past  telling,  and  I  want  to  take  you 
out  of  your  empty  world,  my  sweet  dear,  to  share  mine." 
He  paused,  to  go  on  again  in  a  moment. 

"How  you  will  enrich  it,  my  world,  with  your 
presence!  I  cannot  tell  you  that  either,  not  now, 
all  at  once.  I  will  tell  you  a  little  at  a  time,  every 
day,  and  it  shall  last  all  our  lives.  Penelope,  my 
sweetest  and  best,  let  me  begin  to-day,"  he  ended  by 
pleading.  In  his  certainty  he  held  out  his  arms,  but 
Penelope  shrank  backwards. 


200  THE   POET  AND   PENELOPE 

"You  want  me  to  marry  you?"  she  asked  slowly. 

His  arms  dropped.     "Yes,  yes"  he  said. 

"Not  out  of  charity?" 

"  Before  God,  only  for  love  of  you :  the  only  reason 
that  is  worthy  !  " 

So  he  gave  her  the  cue  she  was  blindly  groping  after, 
and  she  seized  it  with  all  her  accustomed  quickness. 

"  But  I  cannot  marry  you  for  a  home,"  she  said. 

"What ?"  he  started. 

"  And  I  do  not  love  you." 

The  sweet,  high  voice  did  not  falter  now,  as  she  told 
her  monstrous  untruth,  looking  him  fairly  in  the  eyes, 
and  without  change  of  colour.  But  she  was  pressing 
her  hands  against  her  bodice,  and  if  he  had  been  a  step 
or  two  closer  (he  was  close  as  it  was)  he  would  surely 
have  heard  the  crackling  of  paper  beneath  it ;  where 
his  letter  lay  on  her  heart,  to  give  her  strength  to  deny 
him. 

But  the  Poet  still  persisted  in  reading  her  by  the 
light  of  the  past  rather  than  by  the  present,  although 
he  shaped  his  words  by  hers  in  some  measure. 

"  I  will  teach  you  to  love  me,"  he  said. 

"You!  You!"  cried  Penelope,  trapped  for  the 
moment.  "But  you  have  only  just  learnt  love  your- 
self!" 

"  Then  you  do  love  me ! "  he  cried  triumphantly. 
"I    do   not,"   said   Penelope.      "Why   should   you 
suppose  it  ? "    That  too  was  a  false  move ;  she  saw  it 
when  the  words  were  out  and  could  not  be  recalled. 

"  Because  ?  0  Penelope  !  Penelope !  Is  it  really 
so  wonderful  that  I  should  suppose  it?  Have  you 
forgotten  that  night  at  Lady  Marian  Markhnm's  so 


THE  POET  PEOPOSES  201 

soon  ?  Did  your  face  tell  me  none  of  the  things  I  was 
hungering  for  then  ?  Have  you  forgotten  all  the  hours 
we  have  spent  together,  our  joy  in  being  together,  the 
wrench  that  has  been  in  each  parting,  and  will  be  again  ? 
Are  your  beautiful  eyes  trained  liars  ?  Do  they  grow 
larger  and  radiant  with  sorrow  ?  Do  they  drown  them- 
selves in  soft  mists  for  joy  ?  What  of  your  lips, 
Penelope  ? "  He  moved  nearer,  but  Penelope  put  out 
her  hands  as  if  imploring  his  mercy. 

"  Have  you  forgotten  that  I  have  kissed  your  lips  ? " 
he  asked  more  softly.  "  Dare  you  deny  that  nearly  a 
year  ago,  under  that  wild  cherry-tree — our  temple  with 
its  nightingale  choir — I  might  have  kissed  you  as  much 
as  I  chose  ?  But  I  chose  to  save  something — until 
to-day.  You  are  in  my  debt,  Penelope ;  you  owe  me 
those  kisses." 

"No!    Ah— no!" 

"But  you  do,"  he  insisted,  with  a  change  in  his 
flexible  voice  to  follow.  "Dear,"  he  said,  "there  is 
something  between  us  I  don't  understand.  Never 
mind ;  let  me  kiss  you.  If  I  cannot  teach  you  anything, 
at  least  I  can  make  you  remember." 

"  Ah — no  ! "  gasped  Penelope,  "  you  cannot !  You 
cannot ! "  She  took  a  long,  visible  breath,  as  though 
she  prepared  herself  for  an  emergency  almost  beyond 
her  strength.  Then  she  went  on,  speaking  rapidly  : 

"It  is — me.  I — I  am  not  what  you've  thought 
me.  I  have  not  meant  what  I've  looked  to  mean, 
though  I  meant  you  to  think  it.  I  can't  help  it — it  is 
horrible  to  be  made  so,  but  one  can't  help  how  one's 
made.  I  am — what  you  would  call "  she  hesitated. 

"  I  should  call  you  a  heartless  flirt,"  said  the  Poet, 


202  THE   POET  AND  PENELOPE 

his  voice  grown  hard,  and  even  harsh,  "  if  I  thought  you 
were  speaking  the  truth,"  he  ended,  with  yet  another 
quick  change  in  expression. 

"  I  am — I  mean  it,"  said  Penelope.  "  That's  what  I 
am."  (Still  it  seemed  she  could  not  speak  the  word 
she  appropriated.)  "  But,  oh,  I  might  be  worse ! "  she 
cried,  carried  away  on  a  wave  of  self-pity.  "  I  might 
have  let  it  drive  me  into  accepting  you,  only  to  find 
out  your  mistake  when  it  was  too  late ! " 

She  was  searching  his  well-known  face  as  she 
spoke,  and  she  knew  that  she  had  worked  her  intention 
at  last. 

"My  income's  hardly  good  enough  for  all  that, 
Penelope,"  he  said  bitterly,  and  although  he  said  other 
things,  not  entirely  giving  up  yet,  they  were  no  longer 
difficult  to  meet.  Plainly  he  was  not  convinced, 
but  too  hurt,  both  in  his  love  of  her  and  his  love 
of  himself,  to  recognise  just  at  present  all  his  own 
doubt. 

"And  when  I  am  not  with  him,"  Penelope  told 
herself  later,  watching  him  go,  "  other  doubts  will 
spring  up,  to  kill  these  doubts.  They  will  war  with 
each  other  until  in  time  he  will  be  convinced  also." 

She  noticed  that  he  went  out  without  one  look 
to  spare  for  the  wallflowers  leaning  towards  him, 
golden  and  brown,  from  the  wide,  sunny  border.  There 
was  his  favourite  lilac  in  blossom ;  there  was  may  and 
laburnum  and  chestnut  all  there,  and  all  flower-laden. 
He  had  come  in  without  a  glance  for  them  (she  had 
watched  his  coming) ;  that  told  of  eagerness  to  see  her. 
And  he  had  gone  as  he  came,  as  far  as  effect  went, 
though  the  cause  of  his  abstraction  this  time  was  anger 


THE  POET   PEOPOSES  203 

and  soreness  of  heart.  But  when  he  had  recovered  a  little 
(and  surely  she  was  not  mistaken  in  him,  he  must  soon 
recover),  he  had  still  his  love  for  these  things  and 
their  kind  to  fill  up  the  void.  Besides  his  poetry,  his 
glorious  art,  to  work  at  and  live  for. 

Now  it  could  never  he  said  that  she  had  set  her 
opposing  nature  in  close  contact  to  spoil  his.  Now  she 
had  given  him  the  only  thing  she  had  left  to  give  him, 
the  right  to  despise  her,  for  his  ultimate  good. 

And  now  she  turned  from  the  window,  weeping 
bitterly. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE    UNFORESEEN 

TKULY  Penelope,  from  her  own  point  of  view,  had  heen 
quite  right  when  she  withheld  from  the  Poet  her  real 
reason  for  refusing  him.  Beforehand,  she  had  half 
meant  to  give  him  the  truth;  she  had  not  expected, 
indeed,  to  have  the  strength  granted  her  to  do  the 
thing  she  had  actually  done,  to  deny  altogether  her 
love  for  him.  But  when  the  time  came,  this  exceed- 
ingly sharp  and  bitter  way  had  proved  the  only  way 
open.  She  knew  so  well  from  experience  of  one  kind 
and  another,  just  how  far  she  had  power  over  him ;  her 
own  limit,  in  fact. 

And  the  moment  she  saw  his  dear,  resolute  face, 
swept  clear  for  the  time  of  all  dreaminess,  she  under- 
stood the  correspondingly  clean  sweep  he  would  make 
of  her  will  clashing  his — her  love  being  granted. 

That  day  he  was  set  on  gaining  her,  and  not  fame. 
That  day  she  was  first,  and  his  art  so  immeasurably 
lower  in  his  estimation  that  it  would  have  been  madness 
to  attempt  the  use  of  it  as  either  weapon  or  shield. 
So  she  had  told  her  lie,  and  having  proved  it  effectual, 
she  continued  to  force  herself  into  giving  it  praise,  inter- 


204 


THE  UNFORESEEN  205 

spersed  with  vows  of  unwavering  fealty  towards  it. 
And  this  last  was  by  no  means  unnecessary. 

For  the  Poet  had  done  a  most  dangerous  thing  (again 
from  her  point  of  view),  when  he  rushed  to  her  with 
such  unexpected  impetuosity ;  his  aim  the  sharing  and 
assuaging  of  her  sorrow.  He  could  not  have  done 
anything  more  entirely  after  Penelope's  own  heart, 
and  it  was  a  proof  of  the  great  opinion  she  held  of  him 
as  a  poet,  that  she  did  not  yield  to  the  man  that  heart 
in  return  for  this  act  alone.  She  may  even  have  felt 
a  little  proud  of  herself  because  she  had  not  so  yielded, 
and  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  she  did,  as  a  very  small  prop 
in  a  time  of  great  loneliness. 

And  Dot  only  of  loneliness ;  that  she  had  foreseen 
and  determined  to  brave.  But  she  had  not  expected  to 
be  rocked  perpetually  on  a  sea  of  indecision  as  to  the 
wisdom,  after  all,  of  her  own  course ;  yet  even  that  she 
had  to  pass  through.  She  never  could  view  herself  as 
quite  in  the  wrong  (though  at  moments  she  courted  the 
vision),  but  neither  could  she  view  herself  wholly  right, 
as  had  certainly  been  her  privilege  before  the  Poet  had 
really  proposed.  To  Penelope  this  proved  the  worst 
state  of  all,  as  a  state  to  which  she  was  utterly 
unused. 

The  Poet,  in  a  like  case,  would  have  looked  forward 
to  it  as  a  natural,  if  unpleasant  consequence,  since  he 
rarely  did  anything  without  some  such  result.  He 
would  have  known,  it  is  to  be  presumed,  therefore,  in 
the  midst  of  his  keenest  suffering,  that  it  must  die 
down  in  time,  righting  itself.  But  to  Penelope's  in- 
experience it  was  unbearable  torture,  and  seemingly 
endless. 


206  THE  POET  AND   PENELOPE 

And  of  course  it  was  the  Poet  himself  who  had 
helped  her  to  it.  There  had  come  a  look  in  his  fine 
eyes  like  the  look  in  the  eyes  of  a  beaten  dog.  The 
almost  divine  light  love  had  kindled  in  them,  had  died 
out  with  the  death  of  his  belief  in  her,  and  the  last 
things  he  had  said  had  been  prompted  by  a  part  of  him 
she  had  never  been  in  contact  with  before. 

A  man  who  was  perhaps  not  quite  a  gentleman ;  or 
a  gentleman  moved  strongly  out  of  himself,  in  these  they 
might  have  seemed  not  unnatural,  but  coming  from  her 
fastidious  Poet  they  shook,  and  shook  dangerously,  the 
very  foundations  of  Penelope's  belief. 

What  if  she  had  killed  something,  and  that  the  best 
thing  in  him,  in  her  efforts  to  turn  him  to  the  higher 
purposes  of  life  ?  She  constantly  put  this  horrible 
thought  from  her,  but  not  always  with  success. 

Little  things  worked  for  the  Poet  too,  and  moved 
though  they  failed  to  entirely  change  her.  After  he 
was  gone,  she  found  a  scrap  of  torn  paper  on  the  floor 
which  he  had  evidently  drawn  unnoticed  from  his 
pocket.  She  knew  his  pockets  were  often  lined  with 
such  scraps ;  she  had  seen  him  entrusting  stray  impres- 
sions to  their  keeping  many  a  time,  and  had  laughed  at 
him  for  the  habit.  "  Why  can't  you  keep  a  note-book 
like  any  reasonable  being  ?  If  reasonable  beings  ever 
do  scribble  verses,"  is  what  she  had  generally  said.  But 
she  did  not  laugh  now. 

As  she  expected,  a  fragment  of  verse  gave  value  to 
the  fragment  of  paper.  Either  the  Poet  had  been 
suddenly  struck  by  an  idea  which  he  had  noted  at  once 
to  follow  it  up  later  in  more  elaborate  fashion,  or,  even 
more  probably,  on  seeing  the  haunting  thought  in 


THE  UNFORESEEN  207 

writing  it  had  ceased  to  haunt  him  or  particularly 
please  him  either. 

Thus  the  Poet  had  written  • 

"  Not  a  thousand  graces,  but  a  human  touch 
Not  the  love  of  many,  but  one  loving  much," 

and  had  then  run  out  either  of  paper  or  ideas.  But 
Penelope,  in  a  manner  which  would  not  have  wholly 
disgraced  the  maker  of  the  lines,  wove  her  fancies  about 
them. 

The  "  thousand  graces  "  might  very  well  stand,  she 
thought,  in  a  poet's  extravagant  phrasing  for  his  own 
graceful  art.  And  although  he  had  not  really  gone  on 
to  put  a  "  human  touch  " — which  might  even  be  her 
heart  meeting  his — above  it  in  value,  the  drift  of  the 
words  set  that  way.  For  the  "  love  of  many,"  she  read 
the  adulation  and  praises  of  the  world ;  fame,  to  be 
brief  (an  ingenious  reading  indeed !),  and  she  boldly 
claimed  for  herself  the  "  one  loving  much."  She  had 
no  doubt  he  would  have  gone  on  to  wordily  prefer  that 
"  one  loving  much,"  and  so  she  went  on  to  put  words,  if 
not  poetical  wording,  to  this  version  and  extension  of 
hers.  As  a  novelty  her  exercise  of  paraphrase  gave 
her  some  glimmering  of  relief  at  the  time,  but  although 
very  likely  she  even  tried  to  turn  it  into  a  lasting 
impression,  she  found  it  fell  far  short  of  that  all  too 
soon. 

For  Penelope  was  not  one  of  those  who  find  even 
temporary  ease  or  excitement  in  changes  of  mind,  and 
it  only  worked  with  her  just  a  little  way,  and  there  she 
was  back  where  she  started  again.  She  had  been  so 
sure  she  was  quite  in  the  right.  The  most  she  could 


208  THE  POET  AND   PENELOPE 

arrive  at,  even  now,  was  an  intermittent  fear  of  mistake. 
And  never  to  a  certainty  of  it  (and  how  she  would  have 
welcomed  the  certainty  !)  strong  enough  to  compel  her 
to  action.  (Glorious  action,  the  recalling  of  love ! ) 

Meanwhile  the  Poet —  just  as  if  these  two  who  loved 
each  other  so  much  had  made  exchange  in  their  last 
interview  of  some  part  in  their  natures — the  Poet  was 
of  one  mind  concerning  all  things.  Though  in  him 
this  proved  no  enviable  state ;  far  from  it. 

For  so  long  now  that  he  seemed  to  have  lost  its 
beginning,  he  had  taken  Penelope  as  the  living 
personification  of  all  the  most  beautiful  things  life  held 
for  him ;  the  embodiment  and  best  inspiration  of  his 
art.  Before  he  had  begun  to  desire  her  constant 
companionship,  or  to  see  the  benefit  it  would  be  to  his 
work  to  have  her  light  always  shining  on  his  path  (and 
long  before  he  set  up  his  wayside  altar  to  caution,  or 
abandoned  it  for  pity),  he  put  her  apart  for  worship,  as 
a  pure  springing  fountain  of  goodness  and  truth.  And 
because  he  had  discovered  her  false,  he  cursed  his  art 
as  a  false  god  also ;  fatally  tainted,  unworthy,  outcast. 


CHAPTEK  XXX 

THE  SAVING  OF  THE  SITUATION 

CHARLIE'S  mission  may  need  some  recalling,  yet  even 
then  he  can  be  trusted  to  speak  for  himself. 

"There  was  once,"  he  was  saying,  "a  Duchess,  a 
great  lady  with  a  great  idea  of  art,  and  she  fell  in  love 
with  a  huge  bronze  vase  that  was  being  talked  about 
by  all  the  world,  so  that  Bond  Street,  where  it  was 
on  view,  was  a  block  from  end  to  end  with  its  admirers. 
No  rest  could  the  Duchess  take,  night  or  day,  for 
thinking  of  this  vase,  and  especially  how  much  other 
people  were  thinking  of  it,  and  it  ended,  as  such  things 
generally  do  end,  in  her  going  to  the  shop  and  buying  it." 

Here  Lady  Margery  held  up  two  white  hands  and  a 
face  of  piteous  entreaty. 

"  But  must  we  have  it  all  ?  "  she  cried. 

"  I  think,"  said  Charlie  in  an  injured  tone,  "  it  is  due 
to  me  to  tell  my  story  in  my  own  way." 

My  Lady,  on  second  thoughts,  evidently  agreed. 

"  I  said,"  Charlie  continued,  "  that  all  the  world  was 
talking  of  this  monster  vase,  therefore  it  was  not  to  be 
wondered  at  that  within  an  hour  of  the  time  when  the 
Duchess  left  the  shop  another  lady  should  come  in  bent 
on  the  same  errand.  But  two  people  cannot  buy  one 

0  *» 


210  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

article,  however  big  it  may  be,  so  this  second  lady  was 
doomed  to  disappointment.  She  did  not,  as  she  should 
have  done,  though,  leave  the  shop  and  temptation 
behind  her  on  hearing  this.  On  the  contrary,  she 
remained  feasting  her  eyes  on  its  beauties  while  she 
bullied  the  shopkeeper." 

"  I  am  quite  sure,"  put  in  My  Lady  with  a  pretty 
pout,  "  that  he  never  said  so." 

"  No,  he  did  not,"  Charlie  owned.  "  But  I  am  not 
the  shopkeeper,  don't  you  see  ?  " 

Miss  Eunice,  who  had  been  listening  silently,  and  yet 
wondering,  under  the  circumstances,  at  the  subject 
Charlie  Mason  had  chosen  to  enlarge  upon,  here  rose 
with  a  heightened  colour. 

"  I "  she  began,  "  I  can't  really "  She  moved 

towards  the  door,  but  Charlie  reached  her  side  in  time 
to  lay  a  restraining  hand  upon  her  arm. 

"Miss  Eunice,"  he  said  solemnly,  "on  my  word  of 
honour  I  am  not  gassing  like  this  just  to  pain  you. 
But  you  can  do  me  a  great  favour  by  waiting  to  hear 
me  out — and  you  will  do  so,  I  know." 

So  Miss  Eunice  sat  down  again.  She  was  plainly 
unconvinced,  but  no  one  could  put  more  persuasion 
into  a  look  than  young  Charlie. 

"There  are  some  women,"  went  on  this  self-con- 
stituted speaker,  "  who  can  persuade  a  man — oh,  any 
man  — to  anything  !  Which  speaks  but  poorly  in  my 
estimation  for  the  men,  but  that  is  by  the  way.  The 
end  of  this  second  lady's  talk  with  the  shopkeeper  was 
that  she  too  became  the  purchaser  of  that  unique  bronze 
vase,  in  spite  of  the  apparent  impossibility  of  such  an 
ending.  The  exact  means  she  used  to  bring  about  this 


THE  SAVING  OF  THE  SITUATION      211 

exciting  result  we  need  not  enter  upon  here,  perhaps.  It 
did  not  form  part  of  the  conversation — that  is,  directly — 
in  the  other  interview,  to  which  I  must  hurry  on." 

He  paused. 

"I  wish  you  would,"  said  Lady  Margery,  "only 
first » 

But  Charlie's  voice,  or  rather  the  shopkeeper's  voice 
from  Charlie's  lips,  interrupted  her. 

"  The  lady  suggested  that  I,  as  a  business  man,  should 
not  have  much  difficulty  in  explaining  the  exchange  to 
the  '  other  lady.' " 

He  accompanied  the  words  with  a  very  faithful 
imitation  of  the  shopkeeper's  smile,  but  of  that  My 
Lady  for  once  seemed  rather  to  lose  the  point.  It  is 
possible  that  in  the  way  of  trade,  so  successful  a  shop- 
keeper would  keep  more  than  one  type  of  smile  in  stock. 

"  The  other  interview  of  which  I  spoke,"  he  went  on, 
quite  disregarding  My  Lady's  look  of  disgust  or  Miss 
Eunice's  of  growing  bewilderment,  and  rather  dropping 
from  his  former  lofty  style,  "  was  honestly  less  to  my 
taste.  However,  we  got  on  very  well  after,  say,  the  first 
ten  minutes.  I  was  obliged,  once  I  got  her  on  the  subject, 
which  I  confess  was  not  difficult,  to  let  her  run  on  until 
she  had  exhausted  herself.  There  is  no  sense  in  trying 
to  stop  a  torrent  in  the  middle  of  its  course.  From  her 
point  of  view,  the  Duchess  is  the  injured  person.  She 
put  that  to  me  very  strongly.  She  seemed  almost  to 

overlook "  he  smiled  at  the  recollection.  "Well, 

the  Duchess  doesn't  come  here  very  much,  does  she  ? " 

"  No,"  said  My  Lady,  "  we  are  not  quite  without  our 
blessings." 

"She   doesn't  seem  a  bad  old  sort,"  said  Charlie 


212  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

Mason  with  a  fine  mixture  of  irreverence  and  mischief. 
"  When  you  get  to  know  something  of  her  little  ways. 
She  looked  some  trifling  surprise  when  she  found  I 
wasn't  as  ignorant  of  the  scandal  of  the  Great  Bronze 
Vase  as  she  fondly  supposed,  though.  If  she  had 
been  talking  to  some  one  else  and  not  my  precious  self, 
I  might  have  fancied  her  annoyed.  But  when  she 
found  out  further — I  didn't  spring  it  on  her  too 
suddenly — that  I  had  also  some  acquaintance  with  the 
shopkeeper,  she  sank  all  other  characteristics  for  the 
time  in  a  rather  undignified  rush  for  information. 
Would  have  been  undignified  in  any  one  else  but  a 
Duchess,  don't  you  know." 

My  Lady  got  up.  She  took  a  seat  that  was  rather 
nearer  Charlie's.  She  leant  towards  him. 

"Mr  Mason,"  she  said,  taking  no  notice  of  Miss 
Eunice's  look  of  having  reached  a  mental  climax,  "  you 
are  so  good — I  know  I  don't  deserve  it — but  if  only " 

"  Well,"  said  Mr  Mason,  "  call  me  a  brute — do !  It 
will  relieve  me.  But  upon  my  honour,  I  am  coming  to 
it  now." 

Whereupon  My  Lady  leant  back  with,  at  any  rate, 
the  outward  semblance  of  relief  on  her  part. 

"  Take  it  altogether,"  continued  Charlie,  "  the  Duchess 
received  me  better  than  I  could  have  expected.  She  is 
not  all  hard.  She  allowed  me  to  speak  when  she  had 
quite  finished,  which  is  as  much  as  I  had  dared  to  hope 
for.  I  had  to  work  it  gently — work  expresses  it — but 
I  did  bring  to  her  notice  one  point  which  she  seems,  in 
common  with  others,  to  have  overlooked  before.  And 
to  do  her  justice,  she  owned  it  carried  some  weight. 
For,  as  I  said  to  her,  in  making  her  purchase,  it  was 


THE   SAVING   OF  THE   SITUATION      213 

that  particular  vase  itself  that  came  into  her  possession, 
not  necessarily  its  copyright.  I  have  to  thank  the 
shopkeeper  for  the  expression,"  Charlie  owned. 

"  The  other  point,  which  I  think  carried  most  weight, 
though  perhaps  you'd  hardly  credit  it " — he  was  looking 
at  the  moment  more  especially  towards  Miss  Eunice — 
"  was  this :  '  Your  Grace  will  be  the  first  to  see,'  said 
I,  '  that,  after  all,  the  shopkeeper  simply  followed  the 
instincts  of  his  class  and  the  first  principles  of  his  busi- 
ness. Like  everybody  else,  in  trade  or  out,  as  far  as 
that  goes,  he  only  showed  himself  desirous  of  making  as 
much  money  as  circumstances  would  allow,  and  we  can 
hardly  blame  him  for  it.'  And  there,"  said  Charlie 
Mason,  with  a  pride  he  did  not  try  to  veil,  "  I  consider 
I  gave  her  something  of  a  home  thrust. 

"That  shopkeeper" —  it  really  was  too  bad  of 
Charlie — "is  a  most  ingenious  chap.  Personally,  he 
appealed  to  me  strongly.  He  made  me  simply  howl — 
his  solemnness  only  seems  surface  deep — over  the  straits 
he  was  put  to,  when  the  vase  was  no  longer  in  the  win- 
dow, to  counterfeit  its  presence.  He  told  me  he  made 
a  decided  hit  by  that  labelling  business — the  '  Lady  of 
Title '  especially  drew  beyond  his  hopes.  Half  London, 
that  is,  feminine  London  "  (this  with  a  sly  look  at  My 
Lady — Oh,  of  course,  she  took  no  notice),  "  dropped  in 
casually  to  buy  some  more  or  less  valuable  trifle,  with 
the  thinly  disguised  purpose  of  discovering  what  title." 

Lady  Margery  seized  on  the  weak  point.  "  I  thought 
you  said  the  vase  wasn't  there  ?  Though,"  she  went  on, 
"  I  know  it  was,  for  I  saw  it  myself." 

"You  saw  what  everybody  saw,"  said  Charlie,  and  it 
was  wonderful  how  the  sense  of  importance  seemed  fix- 


214  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

ing  itself  upon  him.  "Something  wrapped  up  in  all 
that  tissue  paper,  which  might  have  been  the  vase,  or 
might  not.  I  think  that  idea  of  erecting  a  scaffolding 
and  all  that  was  the  biggest  joke.  Perhaps  you  saw 
it?" 

"  No,"  said  My  Lady,  "  but  I  heard  of  it." 

"  According  to  the  shopkeeper,  and  L  am  inclined  to 
agree  with  him,  you  missed  a  sight,"  said  Charlie.  "  I 
fancy  the  Duchess — she  has  her  good  points — thought  so 
too.  Of  course,"  he  put  in  suddenly,  "all  this  is  be- 
tween ourselves.  I  am  pledged  to  the  shopkeeper  for 
that." 

With  as  much  suddenness  Miss  Eunice  arose  and 
approached  this  modern  oracle.  It  seemed  from  the 
expression  of  her  face  that  she  had  at  last  arrived  at 
some  definite  conclusion  from  out  of  the  tangled  web  of 
Charlie's  discourse,  and  that  she  found  it  pleasing. 

"  Mr  Mason,"  she  said,  taking  him  almost  as  much 
by  surprise  as  on  a  former  occasion  she  had  surprised 
Lady  Margery,  "  what  did  the  shopkeeper  do  then  ? " 

"  He  did,"  said  Charlie, "  the  simplest  thing.  He  kept 
the  vase  from  the  Duchess,  whose  vase  it  was,  as  long  as 
he  decently  could,  while  he  had  another  made  exactly 
like  it." 

"Who  would  have  thought  of  that?"  gasped  Miss 
Eunice. 

"  For  me  ?  "  said  Lady  Margery,  with  the  remembrance 
of  that  extra  £1000  tinging  her  voice. 

"  Exactly  so,"  admitted  Charlie  Mason,  being  unable 
to  deny  it. 

My  Lady  sat  silent. 

"  And  you,"  said  Eunice,  while  Charlie  made  up  his 


THE   SAVING  OF  THE  SITUATION      215 

mind  finally  as  to  her  supreme  handsomeness,  "  and  you 
went  to  the  Duchess  straight  from  the  shopkeeper  and 
endeavoured  to  clear  up  things  "by  telling  her  this  ? " 

Miss  Eunice's  countenance  was  very  easy  reading,  and 
Charlie  Mason  was  at  that  moment  nearer  to  envying 
Lord  Colbeck  than  he  had  ever  been  before. 

"  I  told  her  more  or  less  of  this — and  other  things," 
he  answered,  "and  though  I  say  it  that  shouldn't,  I 
half  believe  I've  done  the  trick.  In  fact,  she  gave  me 
to  understand  that  I  had  'saved  the  situation,'  but  I 
must  admit  that  she  added  '  to  a  certain  extent.' " 

They  were  the  Duchess's  words,  and  Charlie  gave  them 
in  the  Duchess's  best  manner. 

He  then  stood  up.  Miss  Eunice,  when  he  had  ceased 
speaking,  had  gone  to  the  other  end  of  the  long  room. 
There  was  the  spring  of  intense  excitement  in  her  step, 
and  in  the  glimpse  Charlie  gained  of  her  face  he  saw 
that  its  accustomed  quietness  had  given  way  before  the 
transforming  touch  of  an  overmastering  emotion. 

"  I  ventured,"  ended  Charlie,  with  a  look  at  My  Lady 
— he  had  seemed  rather  to  avoid  meeting  her  eyes  on  this 
occasion — "to  make  one  suggestion  to  the  Duchess 
on  my  own.  I  make  it  now  to  you.  Don't  you  think 
the  vase  would  form  an  ideal  wedding  present  ? " 

Then  My  Lady's  warning  finger  told  him  to  be 
careful,  and  so  Eunice,  returning,  lost  all  but  his  closing 
words : 

"  I  believe  I  am  at  liberty  to  promise,"  he  was  saying 
as  she  joined  them  again,  "  that  it  will  not  be  the  only 
one  forthcoming." 

"What  is  that?"  she  questioned,  but  obtained  no 
answer. 


216  THE  POET  AND   PENELOPE 

My  Lady  stood  up.     She  faced  Charlie  Mason. 

"How  like  you!"  she  cried,  "how  just  like  you!" 
Then  she  went  on ;  she  would  not  be  stopped  this  time. 
"I  promised  you  my  everlasting  gratitude,"  said  she. 
"That  you  can  claim.  And  I  add  to  it  my  sincerest 
admiration ! " 

She  did  not  seem  to  count  a  look  of  great  happiness 
or  the  re-appearance  of  her  ready  smiles  and  dimples, 
but  there  is  no  doubt  that  Charlie  did. 


CHAPTEK  XXXI 

TO  THE  REGRET  OF  THE  DUCHESS 

FROM  the  foregoing  it  is  intended  that  two  things  at 
least  should  be  made  evident  beyond  the  matters 
actually  set  forth.  But  lest  any  have  missed  them 
they  are  these: 

Firstly,  then,  that  the  Duchess,  before  Charlie  visited 
her,  had  heard  of  Penelope's  plunge  into  poverty.  And 
to  do  her  full  justice,  it  must  be  said  that  she  had  heard 
it  with  sincere  regret,  and  that  not  only  for  her  own 
sake.  Indeed,  through  all  that  followed,  she  did  not 
abandon — only,  as  it  were,  set  aside — her  very  real 
regard  for  Penelope,  for  the  Duchess  carried  an 
affectionate  nature  beneath  her  title.  But  she  kept  the 
best  workings  of  her  affection  for  her  immediate  family, 
and  neither  pity  nor  any  other  tender  feeling  outside  it 
had  power  to  rob  her  of  her  interest  in  Lord  Colbeck's 
future. 

The  Duchess,  moreover,  was  annoyed,  because  in 
every  way  but  the  one  way  Penelope  was  so  suitable. 
So  she  made  a  scapegoat  of  Auntie's  will  and  a  victim 
of  the  Duke  (who  for  Penelope's  sake  was  also  annoyed), 
and  then  she  settled  down  to  matters  nearer  home.  It 
certainly  was  hard  on  her,  for  she  had  gone  considerably 

217 


218 

out  of  her  way  to  do  a  difficult  thing,  when  she  broke 
off  her  son's  engagement  to  Miss  Huddleston  Jones 
(even  now  she  did  not  disclaim  credit  for  that  deed), 
and  further  she  foresaw  it  might  be  more  difficult 
still  to  span  the  breach  she  had  once  considered  so 
opportune. 

Yet  she  had  some  consolation ;  it  might  have  been 
worse.  Lord  Colbeck  might  very  well  have  been 
engaged  to  Penelope  the  Penniless  by  this  time,  if  he 
had  followed  out  all  his  mother's  wishes  and  some  of 
his  own.  Whether  she  had  Lord  Colbeck,  or  Penelope, 
or  the  Poet,  to  thank  for  being  saved  this,  at  least,  the 
Duchess  could  not  decide.  But,  at  any  rate,  she  spared 
no  thanks  for  Miss  Eunice,  never  thinking  of  her  in 
that  connection.  In  other  ways  she  thought  of  her  a 
great  deal 

And  her  chief  thought  and  widest  problem  was  how 
to  lure  Miss  Eunice  back  into  her  former  engagement 
with  the  smallest  loss  of  dignity  for  herself. 

In  fact  the  Duchess,  to  quote  the  subsequent  words 
of  Lord  Colbeck  himself,  having  lately  taken  up  a 
position  she  now  found  untenable,  was  wisely  prepared 
to  climb  down. 

And  then  came  Charlie,  presenting  what  proved,  on 
the  whole,  a  fairly  commodious  ladder. 

And,  for  the  second  point  possibly  missed,  this :  that 
Lord  Colbeck  had  managed  by  his  own  efforts  (and 
without  leave  from  his  mother)  to  help  himself  in  some 
measure.  All  this  time  he  had  missed  no  opportunity 
that  had  presented  itself  of  setting  Miss  Eunice's 
suspicions  at  rest  concerning  his  whole-heartedness,  or 
of  routing  her  jealousy  of  Penelope,  and  circumstances 


TO  THE  REGRET  OF  THE  DUCHESS      219 

had  certainly  backed  him  up  in  this  endeavour.  By 
Penelope's  absence,  for  one  thing,  and  undoubtedly,  for 
another,  Miss  Eunice's  strong  wish  to  be  convinced, 
though  it  might  be  against  herself. 

But  whether  he  would  have  been  even  so  fortunate  if 
Miss  Eunice  had  heard  of  his  visit  to  Penelope  just  at 
this  time  is  a  thing  to  consider.  For,  if  willingly  lulled, 
Miss  Eunice  was  quick  to  take  fire  again.  However, 
as  luck  had  it  (good  luck  undoubtedly),  this  was  one  of 
the  things  withheld  from  her  hearing. 

It  was  Cousin  Jane  who,  unconscious  of  all  she  was 
doing,  brought  about  Lord  Colbeck's  visit  to  Penelope. 
But,  for  all  that,  she  would  not  have  sanctioned  it  if  she 
had  been  consulted  beforehand.  The  entertaining  of 
young  men,  by  maidens,  was  a  thing  she  always  spoke 
of  as  dating  later  than  her  day,  and  therefore,  of  course, 
to  be  viewed  with  suspicion. 

When  it  was  too  late  to  prevent  it  she  did  disapprove ; 
life  teemed  with  opportunities  for  disapproval  to  Cousin 
Jane,  and  she  did  her  valiant  best  to  cope  with  the 
ample  supply.  But  Penelope  met  her  objections  as 
quietly  as  she  could,  and  without  any  attempt  to  over- 
ride them.  This  being  her  present  recipe  for  rendering 
life  bearable ;  life  in  dependence  on  Cousin  Jane. 

That  is  how  the  tables  had  been  turned.  In  a  fit  of 
virtuous  self-abnegation  Penelope  had  decided  to  offer 
a  share  in  her  home  to  Cousin  Jane ;  but  what  really 
happened  was  that  to  Cousin  Jane  was  given  the 
chance  of  making  this  offer,  although  it  presented  itself 
to  her  as  by  no  means  a  concession  to  duty  alone.  She 
wanted  Penelope,  and  did  all  in  her  power  to  keep  her, 
for  the  girl's  sake,  her  own  sake,  and  Auntie's. 


220  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

"My  dear,"  she  would  say,  "I  can  never  lose  the 
feeling  that  there  must  be  some  mistake.  All  this 
money  weighs  so  heavily  on  ine;  I  cannot  bear  the 
burden  alone.  I  have  no  wish  to  shirk  my  responsi- 
bilities"—  this  was  Cousin  Jane  all  over — "but  I  should 
like  to  feel  more  sure  they  were  meant  for  me,  and  I 
by  no  means  feel  that  as  yet.  You  must  help  me  to 
it.  And  by  staying  here,"  she  would  add,  for  Cousin 
Jane  had  her  inspired  moments,  "  you  will  not  only 
make  me  feel  easier  and  give  me  great  happiness,  but 
you  will  be  helping  to  shield  a  memory  we  both  of  us 
love." 

So  Penelope  promised  to  stay.  If  she  would 
have  preferred  independence  she  could  never  have 
brought  herself  to  grasp  it  at  the  expense  of 
Cousin  Jane's  vigilant  conscience  or  Auntie's  seared 
memory. 

For  in  spite  of  her  strong  wish  to  keep  all  thought  of 
the  dead  woman  fragrant,  Penelope  did  not  always  find 
it  so  easy  to  do.  And  if  she  had  not  had  her  own 
trouble  to  distract  her  it  might  very  likely  have  proved 
harder  still.  It  was  this  private  trouble  too  which 
made  her  forgetful  of  Auntie's  latest  injunction  to 
search  in  the  Great  Bronze  Vase  for  something — its 
nature  unexplained — or,  at  any  rate,  caused  her  to  set  it 
aside.  So  Cousin  Jane  was  the  first  to  attach  to  it 
serious  importance,  as  she  afterwards  mentioned  herself 
some  hundreds  of  times.  Her  serious  view  of  this  over- 
looked circumstance  seemed  to  come  to  her  suddenly 
during  one  breakfast  time,  and  she  continued  to  put  her 
conjectures  regarding  it  into  an  unceasing  flow  of  words 
from  that  time  forward. 


TO  THE  REGRET  OF  THE  DUCHESS      221 

Penelope  found  many  of  Cousin  Jane's  questions 
difficult  to  meet,  even  when  the  matter  was  fresh  to 
her.  They  gathered  so  much  force  as  time  went  on, 
and  increased  so  in  number  and  pertinence  that  in  the 
end  she  found  it  expedient  to  succumb  with  a  partial 
confession  concerning  the  liberty  she  had  taken  with 
the  Great  Bronze  Vase. 

Cousin  Jane  was  shocked  ;  she  said  so.  And  yet  she 
was  plainly  not  quite  so  shocked  as  any  one,  knowing 
her  well,  might  have  expected  :  a  fact  due,  perhaps,  to 
the  very  sweet  manner  in  which  Penelope  made  her 
confession. 

Once  she  had  grasped — well,  as  much  as  Penelope 
told  her,  Cousin  Jane  was  all  eagerness  to  have  the 
vase  examined  and  rifled  of  its  contents  if  it  had  any. 
She  was  quite  sure,  too,  that  something  would  be 
found  in  it;  some  secret  brought  to  light  by  its 
means. 

"  And  if  it  clears  up  the  mistake,  my  dear,  I  shall 
breathe  more  freely  all  the  rest  of  my  life,"  said  Cousin 
Jane. 

"  I  don't  see  how  it's  possible,"  objected  Penelope. 

"With  Providence  all  things  are  possible,"  said 
Cousin  Jane  devoutly.  And  added  with  reproving 
emphasis,  "/  have  faith." 

"  If  you  have,  you  are  exerting  it  in  a  strange  enough 
direction  this  time,  then,"  smiled  Penelope,  rounding 
her  smile  with  "You  funny  old  dear!"  And  indeed 
Cousin  Jane  seemed  more  anxious  to  be  quit  of  her 
present  good  fortune  than  most  people  are  to  obtain 
one. 

As  Penelope  constantly   pointed  out  to  her,  once 


222  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

adding :  "  But  you  won't  do  it  by  means  of  the  vase  I'm 
sure — how  could  you?  Dear  Auntie  was  wandering, 
and  I  think,"  very  softly,  "  that  it  was  just  as  a  punish- 
ment to  me  for  ever  having  deceived  her  that  her 
wanderings  took  that  shape." 

Nevertheless,  Cousin  Jane  had  her  way — or  part  of 
it.  Penelope  promised  her  to  do  what  she  could, 
although  in  self-defence  she  was  obliged  to  refuse 
to  commence  operations  by  writing  a  full  explanation 
to  the  Duchess,  which  was  Cousin  Jane's  first  idea,  or 
to  summon  the  Poet  to  their  assistance,  which  was  her 
substitute.  The  Poet  had  made  himself  so  agreeable  to 
Cousin  Jane  once  or  twice,  that  he  always  stood  in  her 
mind  a  little  apart  from  the  class  she  knew  and  dis- 
approved of  as  young  men. 

If  Penelope  must  do  it  at  all,  she  was  firm  in  her 
determination  to  do  it  in  her  own  way;  even  before 
she  had  decided  what  that  way  had  best  be.  After 
much  thought  she  decided  on  Lord  Colbeck  as  the 
easiest  to  approach  on  a  difficult  subject,  of  the  people 
available,  and  the  most  likely  to  be  pleased  and 
ready  to  help  her.  (Alas!  that  she  must  place  him 
before  the  Poet  in  that !) 

She  waited  until  she  had  Lord  Colbeck's  answer  to 
her  letter  asking  him  to  come  to  her,  before  she  said 
anything  more  to  Cousin  Jane.  "And  you  must  let 
me  see  him  alone,"  she  said  then,  "  for  a  little  while, 
please,  dear." 

Cousin  Jane  was  so  bent  on  becoming  poor  again,  if 
possible,  that  she  ended — there  was  an  interval — by 
even  consenting  to  this.  But  as  excusing  herself  to 
herself,  she  said  that  she  supposed,  being  son  of  a 


TO  THE  REGRET  OF  THE  DUCHESS      223 

Duke,  Lord  Colbeck  must  be  a  superior  young  man, 
and  know  how  to  behave. 

"  He  likes  to  consider  himself  a  rather  gay  dog, 
though,"  said  naughty  Penelope,  the  spirit  of  mischief 
not  all  killed  in  her  yet. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

LORD   COLBECK  BESTIRS   HIMSELF 

WHETHER  he  could  justly  be  considered  superior,  or 
only  as  he  would  have  said  himself  "  very  ordinary,"  at 
any  rate,  Lord  Colbeck  proved  willing  to  help  Penelope 
to  the  best  of  his  powers,  which  was  all  she  desired  of 
him. 

He  listened  attentively  and  in  silence  to  the  tale  she 
had  to  tell;  seized  the  idea  of  how  to  shift  the  false 
bottom  of  the  Great  Bronze  Vase  and  lay  bare  its 
secret  hiding-place  with  a  readiness  which  sprang  from 
a  natural  aptitude  for  such  matters,  and  almost  before 
she  could  ask  him  to  help  her,  was  eagerly  proffering 
his  assistance.  "And  right  away,"  he  said  briskly. 
"  There  shall  be  no  unnecessary  delay,  I  promise  you. 
It  sounds  a  bit  too  like  a  fairy  tale,  though,  doesn't 
it  ? "  he  broke  off  to  question. 

"  I'm  afraid  so,"  admitted  Penelope. 

"But  if  it  should  lead  to  a  good  find,"  he  said, 
"  I  can't  tell  you  how  I  shall  relish  being  the  one  to 
help  you  to  it,  if  only  in  such  a  small  way.  I  would 
far  rather  bring  you  good  fortune  than  do  anything 
else  in  the  world,  or  obtain  anything  in  the  world,  for 
myself — and  I  think  you  must  know  it." 

224 


LOKD   COLBECK  BESTIRS  HIMSELF      225 

As  he  spoke  he  looked  straight  at  Penelope,  and 
something  in  his  look,  or  in  his  tone,  set  a  new  train  of 
thought  working  in  her  mind.  But  all  she  said  was  : 

"  I  think  I  do,  or  ought  to." 

"  And  I  can't  tell  you,"  went  on  Lord  Colbeck,  "  how 
much  I  thank  you  for  honouring  me  in  this  way.  To 
think  you  should  choose  me ! — I  can  tell  you  I  am  just 
obliged  to  you." 

But  Penelope  only  smiled,  and  that  rather  faintly. 
She  was  thinking  hard;  trying  to  force  herself  to  a 
rapid  conclusion.  How  would  it  be,  was  her  thought, 
to  exert  her  influence  over  Lord  Colbeck  to  its  utmost 
and — well,  in  fact,  to  marry  him  ?  It  would  mean,  now 
that  she  was  proved  poor,  the  defying  of  the  Duchess, 
but  might  not  the  necessary  battling  prove  a  not 
unwelcome  distraction  ?  And  she  would  really  have  to 
exert  herself  to  regain  all  her  ascendency  over  Lord 
Colbeck ;  she  saw  that,  although  she  had  seen  so  little 
of  him,  and  had  no  idea  of  the  school  in  which  he  had 
been  learning  independence.  But  she  gave  herself 
credit  for  being  able  to  accomplish  it — even  to  the 
pacifying,  in  time,  of  the  Duchess — if  she  nerved 
herself  to  the  task,  and  the  marriage,  she  urged  on 
herself,  would  surely  be  the  end  of  this  miserable 
uncertainty  of  purpose  which  was  wearing  her  out. 

"Then  all  the  while  London  was  agog,  distracting 
itself  about  these  vases,  you  were  laughing  up  your 
sleeve,"  Lord  Colbeck  was  saying,  "knowing  more 
about  them  than  any  one,  but  saying  nothing !  "  The 
joke  he  found  in  this  was  greatly  to  his  taste  (although 
he  would  have  had  very  hard  work  to  keep  such  a 
silence  himself),  and  he  laughed  as  he  spoke. 

p 


226  THE  POET  AND   PENELOPE 

"About  the  vase"  said  Penelope,  speaking  ab- 
stractedly. "  Not  about  the  vases ;  or  how  there  came 
to  be  two." 

So  Lord  Colbeck  filled  in  for  her  all  he  had  lately 
gathered  concerning  the  gaps  in  that  story.  "  And,  by 
Jove!"  he  interpolated,  "the  mater  mayn't  have  the 
original  vase,  after  all!  Lady  Margery — and  I  can 
quite  believe  she  may  have  been  first  favourite  with  the 
shopkeeper — may  have  it.  But,  anyhow,  I'll  manage  to 
see  what  there  is  to  be  seen ! " 

Then  he,  too,  seemed  beset  with  some  private 
concern. 

For  in  telling  his  story,  the  Poet's  name  had  not 
unnaturally  been  mentioned,  and  his  wideawake  eyes 
had  not  failed  to  note  how  Penelope  winced  at  that 
name.  It  set  Lord  Colbeck  wondering,  but  it  ended 
conjecture  for  Penelope. 

She  had  but  to  hear  the  familiar  title  spoken  thus 
at  random,  and  by  some  one  else,  to  realise  that  even 
if  she  would  not  marry  the  Poet,  neither  could  she 
marry  any  one  else.  So  Lord  Colbeck  was  spared  a 
great  temptation,  and,  it  is  to  be  feared,  a  speedy 
surrender. 

Lord  Colbeck  sat  wondering ;  indeed  he  had  not 
been  without  considerable  cause  for  speculation  ever 
since  he  came.  All  the  while  he  had  been  talking 
after  his  usual,  easy-going  fashion,  inwardly  he  had 
been  questioning,  striving  to  find  some  cause  for  the 
unmistakable  things  which  met  his  gaze. 

Why,  he  wanted  to  know,  had  Penelope  grown  so 
pale  and  changed  in  so  short  a  time  ?  Why  had  even 
her  eyes  lost  much  of  their  warm  colouring  and  all  the 


LOKD   COLBECK  BESTIRS   HIMSELF      227 

best  of  their  light  ?  Why  was  her  very  height  seem- 
ingly diminished,  her  proud  bearing  a  thing  of  the 
past  ?  She  might  smile,  but  she  could  not  deceive  him. 
What  had  become  of  the  dancing,  bewitching  smiles 
that  he  knew  ?  He  had  just  professed  himself  willing 
to  give  up  anything  he  possessed  if  he  might  only  serve 
her.  And  he  added  now  that  he  would  willingly  give 
up  honour — life  itself — for  the  power  and  the  right  to 
bring  back  her  smiles  to  Penelope. 

But  only  one  man,  to  the  best  of  Lord  Colbeck's 
belief,  had  that  right  and  that  power.  And  he  had 
arrived  at  the  belief  through  much  careful  considera- 
tion of  the  subject,  and  also,  it  is  undeniable,  through 
strong  personal  regret.  And  this  man  on  whom  but 
lately  (well,  even  within  the  last  few  minutes)  he  had 
wasted  a  great  deal  of  good  envy,  was  also,  now  he 
came  to  think  of  it,  presenting  a  very  changed  aspect 
to  the  world.  Nor  was  he  apparently  even  trying 
— as  Penelope  plainly  was  trying — to  cover  the 
change. 

Lord  Colbeck  quickly  put  the  two  things  together 
to  form  a  whole.  Quite  what  that  whole  expressed  he 
could  not  determine  yet,  but  he  vowed  he  would 
shortly  find  out.  In  case  he  might  use  his  know- 
ledge on  Penelope's  behalf,  and  for  this  chance  of 
doing  her  subsequent  good,  he  now  steeled  himself  to 
give  her  present  pain  by  commencing  to  talk  to  her 
about  the  Poet  and  forcing  her  to  attention. 

It  told  something  of  the  depth  of  the  alteration  in 
Penelope  that  she  found  no  way  to  stop  him ;  did  not, 
indeed,  after  the  first  word  or  two,  feign  any  desire  to 
stop  him.  For  although  every  mention  of  the  Poet's 


228  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

name  at  this  time  cut  through  her  like  a  knife,  when 
she  knew  there  was  something  that  she  might  hear 
about  him,  she  was  without  strength  to  deny  herself 
the  painful  indulgence.  She  did  not  pause  to  consider 
whether  Lord  Colbeck  was  speaking  out  of  tactlessness 
or  intention ;  she  was  far  too  racked  for  that,  with  the 
fear  of  missing  some  little  detail  he  might  have  to  tell 
her  concerning  her  dearest  on  earth.  And  then  from 
the  first  she  had  been  more  at  home  with  Lord  Colbeck 
than  with  any  one  she  had  ever  known,  excepting  the 
Poet,  or  perhaps  not  excepting  the  Poet,  since  some- 
tunes  the  longing  to  stand  well  with  him  had  over- 
powered her  feelings  of  ease.  So  she  did  not  so  much 
mind  what  Lord  Colbeck  might  think  of  her,  trusting 
him  not  to  think  unkindly. 

Lord  Colbeck,  starting  on  his  self-imposed  enterprise, 
would  have  liked  to  ask  her,  to  begin  with,  why  she 
was  miserable,  and  the  Poet  also  miserable,  for  no 
other  reason  that  he  could  conceive  than  for  love  of 
each  other.  Without  reason  at  all,  rather,  for  love 
granted  on  both  sides  should  leave,  he  contended,  no 
draught  holes  for  misery.  (He,  the  third  person,  had 
seen  so  plainly  their  love  for  each  other,  it  wasn't 
surely  possible  either  of  them  had  missed  the  know- 
ledge ?  "  Oh,  absurd  ! "  said  he.)  But  he  did  not  begin 
thus,  assured  that  at  present  such  plain  speaking  would 
end  in  the  abrupt  closing  of  his  career  of  usefulness. 
And  he  did  not  want  to  be  told  to  mind  his  own 
business  while  Penelope's  business  seemed  so  sadly  in 
need  of  attention. 

Instead,  he  questioned  her  adroitly.  Of  course  she 
had  seen  Laister  lately.  Not  so  very  lately — not  for 


LOED  COLBECK  BESTIKS  HIMSELF      229 

some  days.  Well,  at  any  rate,  she  would  know  what 
had  come  over  him,  the  thing  which  was  so  puzzling 
the  rest  of  his  friends.  She  knew  nothing — nothing — 
nothing ! 

Then  he  would  tell  her,  he  said,  what  he  knew  of  it, 
and  she  must  afterwards  tell  him  in  return  what  she 
made  of  it  all.  He  did  this  speaking  out  of  his  kind 
heart,  to  her  agonised  eyes ;  wounding  her  consciously 
with  each  word — no  light  or  enviable  task. 

For  the  Poet,  it  seemed,  had  not  returned  to  even 
the  semblance  of  his  usual  condition,  or  to  any  wish 
to  affect  a  calm  which  he  did  not  feel  He  was 
still,  in  fact,  of  a  settled  mind,  who  was  born  to  change 
it,  if  only  a  little  for  easement,  with  every  hour.  And 
a  man  cannot  go  away  from  his  birthright  like  that 
without  seriously  suffering  all  over.  Having  cursed 
his  fate — though,  of  that,  too,  Lord  Colbeck  knew 
nothing — he  was  apparently  determined  to  live  hence- 
forward as  though  actually  accursed. 

All  that  Lord  Colbeck  could  tell  Penelope  were  the 
outward  signs  of  an  inward  ravaging  he  could,  at  the 
most,  but  dimly  guess  at.  Of  how  ill  and  stricken  the 
Poet  was  looking;  of  his  having  become  suddenly 
hollow  -  cheeked,  heavy-eyed :  strangest  of  all,  un- 
approachable to  even  his  particular  friends. 

"  Why,  I've  known  the  old  fellow  all  my  life,"  said 
Lord  Colbeck,  "  but  I  can't  get  a  word  out  of  him.  He 
might  be  a  new  man,  and  no  very  desirable  companion 
either,  I  can  assure  you,  except  that  one  feels  he  must 
be  in  trouble,  you  know."  (Did  Penelope  know  ?  was 
his  thought). 

Then  he  went  on  to  describe  to  her  the  commotion 


230  THE  POET  AND   PENELOPE 

that  was  being  made  in  the  world  he  frequented  con- 
cerning this  change  in  the  popular  Poet.  "  The  fellow's 
admirers  are  legion,"  he  said,  "  and  every  one,  admirer 
or  not,  is  busy  with  him  just  now." 

Kumour  connected  with  him  was  evidently  afloat  in 
its  most  extravagant  form.  Lord  Colbeck  quoted  the 
instances  which  had  come  to  his  own  ears,  while  ex- 
pressing his  opinion  that  there  were  many  more  in 
existence.  For  one  thing,  it  was  said  that  the  Hon. 
Laurence  Albert  Laister  had  told  some  one,  for  a  fact, 
that  he  was  leaving  England  very  shortly,  and  had 
added  that  it  would  probably  be  for  good;  so  he 
hoped.  Some  one  else  had  heard  that  he  had  already 
point-blank  refused  a  most  advantageous  offer  for 
the  production  of  his  drama  at  a  West  End  theatre. 
Could  any  one  credit  it?  Well — it  seemed  many 
did. 

Altogether,  it  was  plain  that  the  Poet  cared  not  how 
many  knew  him  to  be  in  trouble,  although  he  sought 
no  confidant  amongst  his  numerous  friends.  Rather, 
indeed,  he  seemed  seeking  to  estrange  his  friends,  as, 
if  rumour  spoke  truly,  he  was  also  abandoning  his 
literary  career.  Because,  surely,  for  no  less  a  cause 
than  that  could  he  refuse  the  first  genuinely  big  thing 
that  had  come  of  it. 

"You'd  have  thought,"  said  Lord  Colbeck  specula- 
tively,  "however  overwhelming  the  trouble  was,  he'd 
have  managed  to  go  on  pretty  much  in  his  usual  way 
long  enough  to  put  people  off  the  scent  of  it,  as  it  were. 
That  he  would  have  bucked  up  a  bit  in  public,  don't 
you  know — let  off  steam  when  he  was  alone,  if  you 
like — and  held  on  to  his  prospects,  at  any  rate.  But 


LORD  COLBECK  BESTIRS  HIMSELF      23! 

I've  noticed  before,  in  smaller  things,  that  although 
Laister  may  seem,  to  the  casual  eye,  just  one  of  those 
tame,  reasonable  chaps  who  earn  the  reputation  for 
always  doing  what  you'd  expect  of  them,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  he's  nothing  of  the  kind.  Manages  to  trip  you 
up  in  your  expectations  nine  times  out  of  ten,  and  does 
the  last  thing  you'd  ever  have  thought  of  his  doing. 
I  suppose  it's  his  originality  breaking  through  the  crust 
of  custom,  but  if  so,  it  also  breaks  up  all  the  charm 
of  originality  for  me.  Anyhow,  he's  smashed  his 
reputation  for  reasonableness  this  time,"  he  con- 
cluded. 

Soon  after  that  Lord  Colbeck  left,  and  without  exact- 
ing an  opinion  from  Penelope  in  return  for  his  news. 
Penelope  had  found  it  harder  and  harder  with  every- 
thing he  said  to  even  partially  veil  her  emotion,  and,  to 
tell  the  truth,  he  was  glad  to  go  for  her  sake,  hard  as  it 
was  to  leave  her  to  sorrow  alone. 

"  Now,"  he  told  himself,  "  if  they've  had  a  royal  row  or 
anything  of  that  sort,  she  knows  he  is  suffering  too, 
and  her  heart  will  help  them  both  out  of  it.  And  if 
it  isn't  anything  like  that " 

He  found  himself  unable  to  believe  it  could  be  other- 
wise than  that. 

Wonderfully  soon,  considering  all  he  had  to  do, 
Penelope  heard  from  him.  But  he  had  found  nothing 
in  the  vase,  in  either  of  the  vases.  The  Duchess's  was 
the  original ;  this  was  proved  by  the  presence  in  her 
vase  of  the  secret  hiding-place,  which  had  not  been 
copied  into  Lady  Margery's.  So  far,  the  shopkeeper 
was  vindicated.  Then  Lord  Colbeck  re-expressed  his 
disappointment  at  the  failure  of  his  errand,  and  was 


232  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

there  anything  more  he  could  do?    Could  Penelope 
suggest  anything? 

But  Penelope  had  no  suggestion  to  make.  No  heart, 
or  interest,  or  thought  to  spare  for  a  matter  in  which 
the  Poet  had  not  a  part 


CHAPTEK    XXXm 

A  SINGLE-HANDED  EMBASSY 

BUT  although  he  obtained  no  suggestions  from  Penelope 
Lord  Colbeck  did  not,  as  he  might  have  done,  even  yet 
give  up  her  causa  He  continued  to  busy  himself  in 
various  directions,  displaying  considerable  energy  and 
resource,  and  even  fertility  of  imagination,  if  he  really 
imagined  success  could  come  of  some  of  the  things  he 
tried.  But  if  he  met  with  a  few  failures  it  was  not  so 
in  every  case ;  he  was  not  without  some  cause  for 
congratulation  for  his  pains. 

For  it  was  certainly  a  painful  experience  for  him 
when  he  hunted  up  the  Poet,  and  tried  on  him  the 
experiment  he  had  previously  tried  on  Penelope. 
Only,  as  he  said  to  himself,  the  "  other  way  round." 

Adversity  had  laid  a  heavy  hand  on  the  Poet,  there 
was  no  doubt  of  that,  and  it  seemed  as  if  just  at  present 
he  had  succumbed  to  an  unworthy  degree  beneath  its 
weight.  At  any  rate,  he  met  Lord  Colbeck's  persistent 
description  of  Penelope's  altered  looks  with  an  assumed 
inattention  as  persistent  and  also  strangely  at  variance 
with  his  old  standard  of  universal  politeness.  Lord 
Colbeck  left  him,  feeling  more  baffled  and  perplexed 
than  before,  with  the  additional  feeling  of  having  done 


234  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

more  harm  than  good  to  further  damp  his  enthusiasm 
for  interference. 

So,  as  a  possible  antidote  to  the  unpleasantness  of 
this  conviction,  he  next  turned  his  attention  from  the 
affairs  of  Penelope's  heart  to  the  concerns  of  Penelope's 
fortune.  He  surely  could  not  go  very  far  wrong,  he 
considered,  if  he  just  called  on  the  shopkeeper  with  a 
view  to  finding  out  if  he  had  discovered  the  secret  of 
the  vase  while  it  was  in  his  possession.  It  was  not 
very  probable  that  he  had  done  so ;  not  very  probable, 
even  if  he  had  done  so,  that  the  removal  of  the  false 
bottom  had  led  to  the  discovery  of  valuable  documents 
which  he  would  be  willing  to  relinquish.  It  was  all 
too  like  a  fairy  tale  again  to  fit  in  with  Lord  Colbeck's 
ideas  of  a  common-sense  proceeding,  but  it  was  one  way 
of  working  off  his  superfluous  energy,  which  made  it,  he 
thought,  excusable. 

The  shopkeeper,  as  Lord  Colbeck  had  feared  would 
be  the  case,  owned  himself  entirely  ignorant  of  the 
secret  of  the  vase.  If  he  had  not  made  a  very  good 
thing,  pecuniarily,  of  its  purchase,  he  would  have  been 
inclined  to  wish  he  had  remained  equally  ignorant  of 
its  existence  altogether — he  frankly  said  so.  But  he 
threw  out  a  suggestion,  for  what  it  was  worth.  "  And 
I  shouldn't  myself  put  a  high  price  on  it,"  he  said  with 
a  suitably  selected  smile  from  among  his  admirable 
variety. 

"  It's  just  possible,"  he  said,  "  that  one  of  the  work- 
men employed  on — er — on  copying  it  may  have 
stumbled  on  the  secret  you  tell  me  about  of  the  false 
bottom,  and  may  even  now  be  holding  any  papers 
found  in  it  in  some  hope  of  blackmailing  some  one.  I 


A  SINGLE-HANDED  EMBASSY          235 

shouldn't  say  it's  likely,  mind  you,  but  there's  the  idea, 
and  I'll  make  it  a  present  to  you  to  act  on  or  not  as 
you  like.  More  than  that,  I'll  give  you  the  address  of 
the  firm,"  which  he  did.  "  You  might  go  and  see  what 
you  can  do,"  he  seemed  to  be  growing  quite  fond  of  his 
own  idea  as  he  elaborated  it.  "  And  if  I  can  do  any- 
thing further,  let  me  know.  I  really  think  I  should  go 
if  I  were  you,"  he  ended  confidentially. 

"Yes,  I  shall  go,"  said  Lord  Colbeck.  "I've  got  to 
see  this  thing  through  as  far  as  may  be,  and  I  cannot 
neglect  the  smallest  chance." 

"  There  may  be  something  in  it,"  said  the  shopkeeper. 

"  Taken  out  of  it,  you  mean,"  laughed  Lord  Colbeck, 
but  he  laughed  from  good-fellowship  and  a  quick  sense 
of  humour,  not  because  he  saw  anything  really  hopeful 
in  the  shopkeeper's  scheme.  Yet,  as  he  said,  he  was 
obliged  to  go. 

He  was  eager  to  be  off  indeed,  for  as  long  as  he  could 
be  engaged  on  any  behest  of  Penelope's,  however 
remotely  of  her  imposing,  he  was  able  to  keep  about 
him  a  spirit  of  knight-errantry,  an  illusionary  nearness 
to  her  sweet  presence,  which  he  knew  very  well  he 
must  soon  give  up,  voluntarily  putting  it  away  from 
him  for  always.  Very  soon  he  must  settle  down  to  his 
appointed  life  and  to  Miss  Eunice.  Not  a  bad  sort  of 
life;  truly  a  most  admirable  companion.  He  was 
determined  never  to  grumble,  or,  at  any  rate,  never  to 
allow  any  one  to  suspect  him  of  grumbling,  at  either. 
But  just  for  these  few  days  he  gave  himself  holiday ; 
reverentially  dedicating  them  to  Penelope's  service,  to 
his  love  for  her  and  her  loneliness.  And  as  the  only 
thing  open  to  him  in  the  way  of  activity,  he  started  on 


236  THE  POET  AND   PENELOPE 

what  he  thought  of  himself  as  a  wild-goose  chase  to 
Birmingham. 

But  before  starting  he  had  a  long  talk  with  his  aunt, 
Lady  Marian  Markham.  He  would  have  chosen  to 
have  this  talk  with  his  mother,  for  Lord  Colbeck  was 
an  affectionate  son.  But  affection  had  not  served  to 
blind  him  to  the  Duchess's  limits,  and  although  he 
thought  of  himself  as  something  of  a  diplomatist,  he 
did  not  consider  it  an  inherited  trait  from  the  maternal 
side.  Wherein,  generally  speaking,  he  wronged  the 
Duchess.  Yet  in  choosing  Lady  Marian  this  time  he 
made  the  wisest  choice. 

The  immediate  result  of  his  talk  with  his  aunt  lay 
in  her  undertaking  an  embassy  single-handed.  She 
did  not  go  to  Birmingham,  she  went  to  Blythedown. 
And  she  did  not  go  seeking  treasure  for  an  individual, 
but  in  the  hope  of  preserving  one  for  the  public 
benefit.  At  least  that  was  her  pretty  way  of  putting  it 
to  Penelope. 

"  I  could  not  help  noticing  how  much  influence  you 
have  with  him,  dear,"  she  said,  having  introduced  the 
Poet's  name.  "  And  if  only  you  will  consent  to  exert 
it  now,  you  do  not  know  how  many  people  you  will 
be  pleasing,  to  say  nothing  of  the  inestimable  benefit  to 
himself.  I  am  sure  you  will  do  it,  too,"  she  finished 
brightly. 

But  this  bright  view,  born  of  hopefulness,  was  soon 
destined,  to  quote  the  Poet,  to  "  sink  into  oblivion  with 
tears,"  or,  at  any  rate,  very  nearly  with  tears.  For, 
"  I  could  have  cried  myself,"  said  sympathetic  Lady 
Marian  later.  "  She  looked  so  miserable,  and  we  all 
know  how  Laurence  Laister  is  looking,  and  you  were 


A  SINGLE-HANDED  EMBASSY          237 

right,  Colin,  in  connecting  the  two  things  —  poor 
miserables ! " 

But  she  found  it  quite  impossible  to  make  Penelope 
admit  the  connection.  She  tried  to  rouse  her  to  some 
sense  of  what  she  pointed  out  as  her  responsibilities,  but 
again  without  achieving  the  result  she  was  working  for. 

"I  am  quite  an  old  woman,"  she  said  with  her 
delicate  smile,  "and  you  must  not  mind  his  having 
often  talked  about  you  to  me.  It  is  my  belief  that  we, 
who  admire  his  gift,  do  not  half  realise  what  is  its  most 
reliable  source — I  mean  how  much  he  owes  to  you." 

"  You  are  very  kind,  but  you  are  mistaken,"  Penelope 
persisted.  "  It  really  isn't  in  me  to  help  him  at  all." 

"  He  has  often  told  me  that  you  do  help  him,"  per- 
suaded Lady  Marian. 

"He  deceives  himself,  then — or  he  did,"  said 
Penelope,  and  Lady  Marian  could  not  prevail  upon  her 
to  the  contrary,  in  spite  of  all  her  trained  and  gentle 
art 

rt  You  know,"  she  said  later,  "  what  he  is  going  to  do, 
has  done,  in  fact  —  only  it  might  be  undone  if  no 
further  time  was  lost  perhaps — about  his  drama  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Lord  Colbeck  told  me." 

"  And  you  have  written  to  remonstrate  with  him  on 
the  wanton  folly  of  such  a  refusal  ?  Why,  it  is  the 
chance  of  a  lifetime!  A  splendid  chance!  I  have 
always  prophesied  great  things  of  him,  yet  never 
anything  for  the  present  better  than  this.  Do  not  tell 
me  you  haven't  written,  or  at  least  tell  me  that  you 
will  write!" 

Penelope  was  studying  her  visitor's  refined  and 
kindly  face — the  distinguished  features  framed  in 


238 

abundant,  glossy,  white  hair — and  a  sudden  impulse 
seized  her. 

"  I  haven't  written,"  she  said.  "  It  wouldn't  be  the 
least  good,  and — and  I  shall  not  be  writing  to  him  ever 
any  more." 

Lady  Marian  swiftly  forsook  her  championship  of 
the  Poet's  cause,  which  was  possibly  a  thing  Penelope 
had  foreseen. 

"  Poor  child !  poor  child ! "  she  said,  answering 
Penelope's  voice  and  her  face,  rather  than  her  actual 
words,  and  added — "  Wouldn't  you  like  to  tell  me  all 
about  it  ?  " 

"  I  almost  think  I  should,"  said  Penelope,  "  only  I  am 
afraid  he  would  not  like  it." 

So  Lady  Marian  Markham  failed  in  her  embassy, 
and  was  regretfully  compelled  to  leave  Penelope  still 
convinced  against  her  will. 

"  For  she  doesn't  know  all,"  Penelope  urged,  thinking 
over  Lady  Marian's  visit.  "How  could  she?"  She 
remembered  how  the  Poet  had  always  credited  her 
with  a  sufficiently  artistic  exterior.  "  I  suppose  I  do 
look  suitable,"  she  pondered.  "  No  one  but  myself  can 
understand,  it  seems  then,  my  commonplaceness  of 
mind." 

She  wished  (ah,  how  she  wished  it !)  to  be  convinced, 
and  she  was  convinced,  or  nearly  so,  that  the  Poet's 
present  madness  must  surely  fail  to  be  a  lasting 
malady.  But  not  that  she  was  the  only  possible 
person  to  help  him  to  recovery.  Yet  what  a  perfect 
thought  that  would  have  been 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

THE  RESULT  OF  A  WILD-GOOSE  CHASE 

LORD  COLBECK  had  gone  on  a  wild-goose  chase  to 
Birmingham,  and,  as  he  put  it,  had  there  stumbled  by 
good  luck,  "right  on  to  the  dear  bird's  nest."  And 
now  Penelope  sat  alone  by  "  Auntie's  window,"  in  the 
drawing-room  at  Blythedown  House,  with  the  result  of 
the  chase  on  her  lap.  Cousin  Jane  was  safely  out ;  a 
fact  for  which  Penelope,  with  much  to  think  about, 
could  not  feel  too  thankful. 

According  to  Lord  Colbeck's  letter  of  explanation,  the 
talented  shopkeeper,  although  he  only  spoke  at  random, 
had  spoken  very  much  to  the  purpose.  There  had 
been  papers  in  the  vase,  and  a  workman  in  the  employ 
of  the  firm  who  copied  it  had  mischievously  and 
greedily  taken  possession  of  them.  Their  recapture 
was  the  substantial  proof  of  Lord  Colbeck's  own  talents, 
but  about  the  chief  means  he  employed  he  said  nothing 
at  all  to  Penelope.  Yet  it  is  to  be  presumed  that, 
except  in  amount,  they  were  similar  to  the  means 
which  Lady  Margery  employed  when  she  tempted  the 
shopkeeper  to  sell  her  the  copy. 

"You  should  find  two  things  enclosed;  a  letter 
addressed  to  you,  and  a  legal  document,"  Lord  Colbeck 


240  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

had  written.  The  letter,  which  Penelope  had  not  yet 
opened,  was  addressed  in  Auntie's  handwriting,  made 
wavering  and  uncertain  by  her  blindness,  yet  still  to 
be  recognised.  The  legal  document  she  had  just  read, 
and  as  far  as  she  could  understand  it  at  all,  she  found 
it  to  be  a  will  of  her  father's,  leaving  her,  his  only  child, 
heir  to  all  he  died  possessed  of,  and  Auntie  her  guardian 
and  his  sole  trustee.  Then  surely  she  ought  not  to  be 
so  poor  now  ?  was  Penelope's  thought  as  she  still 
hesitated  over  the  opening  of  the  dead  woman's  letter. 

As  she  held  it,  poor  cold  thing,  between  her  soft 
warm  hands,  she  realised  how  far  she  had  travelled  at 
heart  from  Auntie  since  Auntie  had  been  gone  from 
her.  Even  her  care  of  Auntie's  memory,  a  thing  serious 
enough  to  employ  all  her  thoughts,  had  failed  to  claim 
more  than  a  tiny  part  of  them.  Worse  than  that,  this 
letter  brought  to  her,  as  it  seemed,  from  beyond  the 
grave,  proved  powerless  to  stir  her  as  just  a  line  from 
the  Poet  must  have  done. 

"  Auntie,  Auntie ! "  she  cried,  "  if  I  had  you  here  to 
take  care  of,  I  could  bear  it  better ! "  That  was  indeed 
a  great  need  of  Penelope's,  always  to  tend  and  care  for 
some  one,  and  the  lack  of  it  formed  her  bitterest  cross 
at  this  time. 

But  it  seemed  there  was  something  she  might  do  for 
Auntie — she  might  listen  to  her  now.  The  instant 
this  thought  came  to  her,  she  opened  the  letter,  be- 
ginning to  read  it. 

The  date  showed  it  to  have  been  written  when  she 
was  just  twenty,  and  she  was  twenty-two  now.  How 
Auntie  had  managed  to  write  it  without  her  knowledge, 
and,  further,  to  secrete  it  in  the  Great  Bronze  Vase,  was  a 


THE  EESULT  OF  A  WILD-GOOSE  CHASE     241 

matter  about  which  Penelope  was  always  left  to  wonder. 
That  she  had  managed  it  all,  even  to  writing  with  more 
than  her  usual  distinctness,  was  undeniable,  however. 

"  My  dear  one,"  Auntie's  letter  began,  and  the  well- 
worn,  tender  phrase  brought  a  hundred  memories  back 
to  Penelope.  "  Oh,  Auntie,  darling,  I  have  never 
really  doubted  you,"  she  whispered,  her  cheek  pressed 
to  the  written  page,  before  she  went  on. 

"  If  I  should  be  called  upon  to  die  before  I  tell  you 
what  I  am  about  to  write  here,  I  pray  God  so  far  to 
forgive  me  all  I  have  done  amiss  as  to  grant  me  breath 
to  instruct  you  where  to  find  this  before  I  go.  I  should 
wish  to  write  down  all  the  joy  I  have  found  in  you, 
since  you  came  to  me  a  little  child,  but  my  pen  is  too 
feeble,  and  I  think,  my  dear  one,  that  you  know  in  part. 
But  a  thing  that  I  must  do,  is  to  beg  your  forgiveness 
before  I  can  go  further,  and  also  to  beg  you  to  believe 
that  if  I  have  failed  in  my  trust,  I  have  done  so  chiefly 
because  of  my  natural  unfitness  for  the  part  and  my 
great  timidity,  not  from  any  want  of  love. 

"I  have  brought  you  up  so  quietly  because  of  my 
fear,  of  myself  and  for  you,  if  you  were  stranded  in  a 
worldly  life  with  no  stronger,  abler  hand  than  mine 
to  help  you.  My  little  child,  if  I  have  robbed  you  of 
many  pleasures,  I  have  endeavoured  to  keep  you  from 
temptation  also.  And  there  was  another  reason  at 
first :  the  property  your  dear  father  left  you,  and  which 
I  allowed  my  man  of  business  to  manage  in  my  name, 
to  avoid,  as  I  thought,  complications,  was  of  small 
value  at  the  time  of  his  death,  and  for  some  years  there 
seemed  great  likelihood  of  its  dwindling  entirely.  So 
in  your  early  childhood  I  began  to  train  you  as  though 

Q 


242  THE  POET  AND   PENELOPE 

you  had  no  greater  prospects  than  the  small  income  1 
have  to  leave,  in  case  that  would  eventually  be  your  all. 
As  you  will  have  found  out,  your  father's  property  has 
since  increased  abundantly  in  value,  and  you  were  still 
quite  young  when  I  recognised  that  you  would  be 
rich  one  day. 

"  But  you  flourished  so  in  your  simple  life,  and  I  was 
so  incapable  of  continuing  your  companion  in  any 
other  !  I  could  not  tell  you  what  the  future  held  for 
you,  because  if  I  told  you  I  felt  that  I  must  go  on  to 
insisting  on  your  leaving  me.  I  loved  you  so,  my  dear 
one,  as  you  were,  that  I  could  not  face  the  thought  of 
your  changing  in  anything  as  the  result  of  a  busier  way 
of  life.  I  shrank  for  you  from  the  world's  treacherous 
snares.  Yet  I  have  meant,  weak  woman  that  I  am,  to 
tell  you  every  birthday — and  I  have  never  done  it. 
The  next  will  be  your  twenty-first  birthday ;  my  little 
child  will  be  of  age  and  a  woman,  and  then  I  can  put 
it  off  no  longer.  Will  you  blame  me  ?  I  think  again 
of  all  the  joy  you  have  brought  me,  and  I  cannot 
believe  that  you  will  wholly  blame  me. 

"  I  have  written  this  from  time  to  time  when  I  have 
been  able  to,  partly  because  of  the  great  irresolution 
the  past  has  convinced  me  of  in  myself,  and  partly 
because  I  sometimes  think  I  grow  less  strong  in  health 
with  every  year.  If  I  could  go  to  my  last  rest  feeling 
I  had  done  my  duty  by  you  in  the  best  way  in  my 
power,  I  could  leave  you  more  easily,  for  God's  greater 
care  can  never  leave  you,  but  often  I  feel  I  have  been 
but  a  poor  coward,  a  faithless  steward  in  His  kingdom 
here. 

"I  put  your  father's  will  years  ago  in  the  bronze 


THE  KESULT  OF  A  WILD-GOOSE  CHASE     243 

vase  as  the  safest  hiding-place  I  could  think  of.  My 
infirmity  makes  me  so  dependent  that  secrets  are 
difficult  to  keep  from  you,  and  I  shall  put  this  with 
it" 

Then  with  a  word  more  of  love  the  letter  ended. 

In  one  place  Auntie  had  written  :  "  The  next  will  be 
your  twenty-first  birthday  .  .  .  and  then  I  can  put  it  off 
no  longer"  Yet  that  day  had  come  and  gone,  and 
another  birthday  had  followed  it,  and  the  long  silence  had 
remained  unbroken.  Years  of  indecision  had  still  left 
Auntie  clinging  to  her  old  purpose  with  the  strange 
exceptional  temerity  of  the  usually  yielding  and  timid 
spirit.  But  her  hope  in  Penelope  was  justified.  She 
set  the  loving  wish  to  shield  her  girlhood  above  all  else, 
for  the  justification,  in  her  turn,  of  Auntie. 

So  she  was  to  be  rich  after  all!  The  knowledge 
brought  her  far  less  satisfaction  as  things  were,  than 
if  she  might  have  devoted  her  riches  to  the  worldly 
advancement  of  the  Poet.  But  she  was  thankful  at 
least  that  the  discovery  would  entail  no  serious  dis- 
appointment to  Cousin  Jane. 

For  any  pleasure  Penelope  might  attain  to  in  her 
altered  circumstances  would  be  more  than  rivalled  by 
the  pleasure  Cousin  Jane  would  find  in  it,  she  knew,  and 
it  was  not  as  if,  as  she  further  reflected,  she  would  be 
reducing  her  to  her  former  narrow  means.  Auntie  had 
been  quite  right  again  in  leaving  her  own  income, 
which  Penelope  could  not  need,  to  the  woman  whose 
need  of  it  was  so  evident. 

Eight  again — yes,  Penelope  could  truly  say  that 
Auntie  had  been  right  in  all  she  had  done  for  her ;  that 
she  would  not  have  had  it  otherwise  if  she  could. 


244  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

With  her  thoughts  wandering  to  the  Poet,  or,  rather, 
homing  to  the  Poet,  since  all  deviation  from  him  seemed 
more  like  wandering  to  her,  she  understood  how  Auntie's 
shielding  care  had  helped  her,  above  all  things,  to  his 
love. 

And  there  she  was  not  deceived.  To  the  natural 
brilliance,  which  she  inherited  from  her  father,  she 
might  owe  much,  but  just  the  sweet  freshness  that 
Auntie  had  kept  for  her  had  been  the  means  of 
bringing  her  nearest  to  the  wayward  heart  of  the 
Poet. 

And  all  the  sorrow  that  very  nearness  held  for  her 
did  not  suffice  to  dim  its  charm.  If  she  had  no  part  in 
his  life  at  least  she  had  his  love.  As  she  tried  to  wring 
this  thought  dry  of  comfort  for  the  hundredth  time, 
or  more,  she  looked  absently  out  of  the  window  to  see 
the  Poet  leaning  on  the  gate,  as  she  saw  him  in  the 
beginning  of  these  pages,  pausing  before  he  entered, 
now  as  then. 

But  the  coincidence  of  his  coming  while  she  was 
thinking  of  him  was  less  than  it  might  seem,  for  was 
she  not  always  thinking  of  him?  And  the  likeness 
o  that  former  time  ended  with  his  attitude.  For 
Penelope  did  n<~t  rush  out,  flushed  and  exultant,  to 
meet  him ;  she  only  stood  watching  him  as  he  slowly 
opened  the  gate  and  passed  through.  She  watched  him 
as  he  came  moodily  up  the  path  without  a  glance  to 
right  or  left — at  gay  border  or  green  level  grass — 
sorrowfully  noting  his  altered  looks,  his  downcast 
bearing.  And  then  she  listened  for  his  step  in  the  hall, 
his  hand  turning  the  door  handle,  with  her  own  heart 
beating  so  loudly  as  to  drown  everything. 


CHAPTER   XXXV 

PENELOPE'S  WEB 

THE  Poet  had  remained  mentally  a  fixture  for  so  long 
that  he  was  beginning  to  lose  count  of  the  time  when, 
without  its  at  all  affecting  his  action  in  the  end,  he 
could  be  in  a  dozen  different  minds  on  one  subject 
in  the  course  of  a  short  half  hour,  or  even  less. 
Deadly,  unrelieved  monotony  seemed  to  have  claimed 
him  for  a  constant  companion,  and  then,  quite  un- 
expectedly, there  arose  a  tiny  speck,  as  of  white  cloud, 
in  his  expansive  and  blackened  outlook.  Far  smaller 
than  a  man's  hand  it  showed  at  first ;  a  woman's  mouth 
would  more  nearly  match  it — Penelope's  rebellious 
mouth  set  to  sad  refusal,  when  it  should  have  been 
smiling  her  acceptance  of  his  heart. 

He  gave  his  thoughts  a  holiday.  He  let  them 
picture  Penelope's  face  as  he  had  expected  to  see  it 
when  he  went  to  her  with  his  offer  of  love.  When  he 
thought  of  her  thus  he  saw  her  with  her  cheeks  a  little 
flushed ;  her  lips  just  parted  as  if  she  meant  to  speak, 
but  could  not;  her  eyes  radiant  and  speaking,  on 
behalf  of  her  lips,  of  joy  unutterable.  And  again  the 

conviction  of  a  terrible  mistake  somewhere  fastened 

tu 


246 

itself  upon  him  to  the  upsetting,  or  at  least  to  the 
delaying,  of  all  his  recent  plans. 

He  had  to  believe  that  Penelope  had  actually  refused 
him,  but  he  now  began  to  search  in  his  own  mind  for 
some  reason,  other  than  the  reason  she  had  given, 
sufficiently  important  to  cause  her  to  do  so.  He  fought 
this  out  with  himself  for  a  long  time,  for  two  whole 
days,  in  fact,  and  then,  quite  suddenly  again,  a  possible 
reason  occurred  to  him,  also,  just  a  little  more  probable 
than  the  rest  had  been,  or  so  it  appeared  to  him. 

Without  giving  himself  time  to  lose  his  hold  on  it, 
he  started  on  his  way  to  Blythedown  to  confront 
Penelope  with  it  there  and  then.  Yet  before  he 
reached  Blythedown  it  had  already  changed  for  him 
into  a  thing  utterly  absurd,  and  he  had  fully  made  up 
his  mind  only  just  to  take  a  last  look  at  the  house  and 
return  to  town  again. 

But  as  he  stood  looking  over  the  gate  at  the  sweet, 
old-world  garden,  looking  yet  seeing  nothing  that  was 
actually  there,  another  mood  took  possession  of  him. 
It  had  come  to  this — that  he  could  not  live  without 
Penelope.  And  even  if  she  could  not  love  him  he 
must  go  to  her,  begging  her  to  take  him — if  only  she 
would.  All  his  knowledge  of  her  cried  aloud  to  him 
that  it  was  most  unlikely  that  she  would — if  she  really 
did  not  love  him.  All  his  knowledge  of  himself  cried 
aloud  to  warn  him  of  the  day-long,  life-long  torture  he 
would  thus  be  tempting  her  to  put  him  to.  Yet  an 
irresistible  force  drew  him  on.  It  was  as  though 
Penelope's  home  put  spirit  hands  upon  him  to  bring 
him  captive  to  her.  So  he  passed  through  the  gate  in 
the  trim  box  hedge,  up  the  garden  path,  and  into  the 


PENELOPE'S  WEB  247 

long  drawing-room,  where  Penelope  awaited  his 
coming,  as  has  been  shown. 

But  when  at  last  he  faced  her,  while  she  still  waited 
for  him  to  speak,  he  found  he  had  nothing  ready  to  say. 
So  he  fell  back  on  the  question  which  had  started 
him  on  this  journey,  and  began  bluntly  with  that. 

"  Look  here,  Penelope,"  he  said,  "  you  must  tell  me 
the  truth.  Did  any  ridiculous  scruples  about  your  loss 
of  means  cause  you  to  refuse  me  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Penelope  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  Or  was  it 
disappointment  ?  He  could  not  determine  which. 

He  looked  long  at  her  face ;  watched  a  hot  colour 
flood  it  and  fade  again ;  noted  how  she  strove  to  meet 
his  glance  and  failed  in  doing  so. 

"  Are  you  sure,  Penelope  ? "  he  persisted,  urged  by 
the  secret  knowledge  of  how  long  her  want  of  means 
had  served  to  keep  him  from  her. 

"  Quite  sure,"  said  Penelope.  "  Besides,  it  was  all  a 
mistake.  My  father's  will  has  been  found,  and  I  am 
quite  well  off,  I  believe — as  far  as  that  goes." 

"It  should  go  a  long  way  towards  your  happiness, 
considering  the  character  you  gave  yourself,"  said  the 
Poet  stiffly  from  between  his  closed  teeth. 

"  Why  should  it  ?  How  can  it  ?  "  flashed  Penelope. 
"  If  you  could  share  it  with  me — if  you  could  help  me ! 
— Oh ! "  she  broke  off  to  exclaim,  "  what  am  I  saying  ? 
I  did  not  mean  that ! " 

It  was  such  an  old  habit  with  her  to  frankly  speak 
out  her  thoughts  to  him,  and  now  the  habit  had 
betrayed  her. 

The  Poet  was  close  to  her  in  a  moment,  his  hands  on 
her  shoulders,  his  eyes  searching  hers. 


248  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

"  You  do  mean  it ! "  he  cried,  "  I  believe  that  you  do 
mean  it  and  all  it  entails ! " 

"  But  I  do  not  mean  it,"  she  said  helplessly,  speaking 
faintly. 

"  I  don't  believe  tfuit"  he  said,  "  you  shall  not  trick 
me  again."  He  tightened  his  hold  on  her.  He  was  not 
regardless  of  the  wild,  frightened  look  in  her  eyes,  but 
he  had  no  pity  to  share  away  from  himself.  "  Now  you 
shall  tell  me  the  truth," he  said.  "Tell  me  that  you 
love  me — as  you  do  love  me ! " 

"  I  do — not,"  said  Penelope. 

What  could  he  do  ?  He  could  only  do  what  he  did, 
let  her  go.  He  let  her  go  so  suddenly,  his  almost 
painful  grip  of  her  shoulders  had  been  so  firm,  that  she 
reeled  a  little,  narrowly  escaping  a  fall.  As  she  straight- 
ened herself  she  saw  that  the  Poet  had  sunk  into  the 
nearest  chair.  His  arms  rested  on  one  of  the  chair 
arms  and  his  face  was  buried  upon  them.  As  she 
looked  at  his  dear,  bent  head  with  its  covering  of 
soft,  ti«uk  hair,  she  wondered  how  she  had  gathered 
the  strength  to  repulse  him,  only  a  moment  ago.  But 
indeed  the  Poet,  thus  visibly  conquered,  was  more 
dangerous  to  Penelope's  determination  even  than  he  had 
been  a  moment  ago,  when  he  tried  (and  tried  vainly) 
to  force  his  will  to  the  conquest  of  hers. 

She  continued  to  look  at  him  for  what  seemed  to  her 
a  long  time  ;  then  he  lifted  Lis  face,  white,  drawn, 
hopelessly  miserable,  to  return  her  look.  Unnerved, 
she  would  have  moved  away  to  hide  what  she  could 
of  her  emotion,  but  he  put  out  his  hand  to  catch  at 
her  dress  as  she  passed,  and  so  detained  her  in  front 
of  him. 


PENELOPE'S  WEB  249 

"  Penelope,"  he  whispered  hoarsely, "  I  don't  care,  dear. 
I  am  fallen  as  low  as  all  that.  If  you  hated  me  I 
should  still  want  you — I  am  past  curing.  Can't  you 
take  me?  I  won't  worry  you  for  your  love.  I  only 

want  to  be  with  you "  He  raised  his  voice,  but  there 

still  remained  the  harsh,  unaccustomed  rasp  in  it.  "I 
can  live  without  your  love,"  he  ended,  "  but  I  cannot  live 
without  you.  Do  you  understand?"  he  asked,  as 
Penelope  remained  silent. 

"  Yes — I  suppose  so,"  she  faltered.  She  was  think- 
ing ;  she  had  so  much  to  consider,  and  she  found  it  so 
terribly  hard  to  think  at  all  in  this  stress. 

"  I  can  live  without  your  love,"  he  repeated,  that  there 
might  be  no  mistake  ;  "  I  cannot  live  without  you." 

"  But,  oh  ! "  she  said,  roused  at  last,  and  speaking  very 
gently,  as  to  a  child  in  trouble,  "  don't  you  know  that 
you  could  never  be  happy  like  that  ? " 

"Yes,"  he  assented.  "And  I  care  nothing  for  it. 
Am  I  happy  now  ?  Do  I  look  happy  ?  Good  Grod, 
Penelope!  Only  one  thing  on  earth  could  make  me 
happy !  Don't  you  see  I  am  trying  to  make  life  just 
liveable? — the  only  thing  you  have  left  for  me  to 
do."  He  loosened  his  hold  of  her  dress  to  catch  at  her 
hands,  clasped  before  her.  "  Do  you  care  for  any  one 
else?" 

"No,"  she  said,  "no,  I  don't" 

"  Then  take  me.  See,  I  throw  myself  on  your  pity. 
STou  have  brought  me  to  this — - — " 

But  she  interrupted  him. 

"Stop!  Stop!"  she  said.  "Oh,  stop,  won't  you?" 
She  paused  brokenly,  and  her  face  changed.  "I  love 
you  ! "  she  whispered,  "  I  love  you — how  I  love  you ! " 


250  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

The  Poet  looked  up  at  her  dumbly,  but  with  a  look 
which  did  away  with  all  necessity  for  words.  He  did 
not,  on  his  part,  wait  for  any  explanation.  He  lifted 
her  hands  to  his  lips  and  covered  them  with  kisses. 
So  he  accepted  her  submission,  or  what,  for  one  ex- 
quisite moment,  he  took  for  that. 

But  Penelope  could  not  for  long  throw  off  the  idea 
which  had  been  dominating  her  so  persistently.  Just 
then  she  had  mislaid  it,  as  it  were,  under  the  oppres- 
sion of  her  longing  to  comfort  the  Poet,  her  great 
desire  to  give  him  all  he  wanted.  But  it  mastered  her 
again  almost  directly.  Her  momentary  impulse  died 
while  he  was  still  actually  kissing  her  hands,  and 
before  he  looked  up  again  the  old  trouble  had  settled 
down  upon  her.  Though  he  was  still  in  ignorance  of 
its  nature,  the  Poet  recognised  its  outward  signs  at 
once. 

"  Don't ! "  she  almost  moaned.  "  Don't  do  it  again ! 
It  isn't  worthy  of  you  or  of  me.  You  must  bear  it ; 
we  both  must;  there  are  so  many  who  have  to.  It 
won't  last  always," — she  spoke  very  quickly,  in  gasps — 
"all  the  old  people  say  it  doesn't  last  always,  and 
they  —  I  suppose  they  have,  some  of  them,  felt  it, 
and  know." 

She  shook  herself  free  of  him,  and  he,  all  the  more 
overcome  because  of  his  brief  glimpse  into  the  land  of 
his  hopes,  buried  his  face  again. 

For  a  minute  Penelope  bent  over  him,  daring  to  rest 
a  hand  on  his  dark  hair.  "  Poor  Poet ! "  she  said.  "  It 
is  ever  so  hard ;  but  it  ought  to  be  better  for  you  than 
for  many.  You  have  your  career  to  think  of;  your 
work  to  fill  up  your  life  and  to  live  for." 


PENELOPE'S  WEB  251 

But  the  Poet  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  Oh !  I  could  curse  you,"  he  cried,  "  for  that !  Do 
you  know  what  you've  done  ?  You  have  spoilt  my 
work  for  me  as  much  as  you've  spoilt  my  happiness. 
While  I  believed  in  you,  somehow,  I  can't  tell  you  how 
it  was,  but  the  thought  of  you  lived  in  all  I  did, 
helped  me  to  all  I  thought,  almost  wrote  for  me  all 
I  wrote.  I  didn't  write  for  you,  but  of  you.  While 
no  one  suspected,  you  were  always  there.  I  am  not 
sure  that  I  more  than  half  knew  it  myself  even,  until 
I  lost  my  belief  in  you.  But  I  know  now ;  for  it  is 
gone.  As  you  are  gone,  so  is  my  gift  for  poetry  gone. 
They  have  become  one  thing,  not  two — and  gone." 

"  To  come  back,"  she  said,  "  in  part  and  after  a  little 
while." 

"  It  shall  never  come  back  if  it  could,"  he  declared. 
'*  I  won't  have  it.  I  will  never  write  a  line  of  poetry 
again  as  long  as  I  live.  And  this  is  your  work ! "  he 
cried  passionately.  His  extravagant  words  were  yet 
alive  with  determination.  They  were  not  the  mere 
outcome  of  the  moment,  but  had  grown  out  of  reluct- 
ant conviction,  that  they  showed  plainly. 

Now  Penelope  sank  into  the  waiting  chair,  for  she 
was  trembling  and  could  not  stand.  As  she  did  so  she 
gave  a  little  pained  cry. 

"You  must  unsay  it,"  she  said.  "Didn't  I  refuse 
you  just  to  keep  your  art  for  you  ? " 

Even  now  she  did  not  speak  with  intention.  But 
fate  was  too  strong  for  her,  or  the  Poet's  anguish  was, 
and  for  the  third  time  that  day  she  spoke  before  she 
realised  what  she  was  going  to  say. 

The  Poet  flung  himself  upon  his  knees  beside  her  to 


252  THE  POET  AND  PENELOPE 

be  nearer  to  her.  All  the  passion  had  died  out  of  his 
face. 

"  Tell  me  ? "  he  said,  "  all  about  it.  All  about  it,"  he 
insisted. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  tell  you  at  all,"  she  said,  "but 
what — oh!  what  am  I  to  do?  You  are  so  unhappy, 
iny  dearest — we  both  are — and  what  am  I  to  do  ?  " 

He  stroked  her  hands  soothingly.  Again  they 
seemed  to  have  changed  parts.  There  was  no  im- 
patience, only  a  great  tender  longing  in  the  Poet's 
eyes,  and  Penelope's  resolve  slowly  melted  before  that 
look.  She  began  to  speak  very  softly.  "  I  refused  you 
because  I  was  so  afraid  of  spoiling  your  life.  I  am  so 
foolish  in  some  things,  and  I  cannot  understand  your 
poetry  even  when  I  can  see  it  is  beautiful  I  know 
your  drama  is  beautiful,  but  I  do  not  even  understand 
the  beauties  of  that,  and  I  felt — I  feel  it  still — that  it 
couldn't  be  good  for  you  to  have  such  an  ignorant  wife. 
Have  you  thought  of  what  it  would  mean  ?  I  should 
be  always  at  your  side — oh,  I  should  have  to  come 
very  near  to  you  if  I  came  at  all — but  more  than  half 
of  you  would  be  unintelligible  to  me." 

"  Dear,"  the  Poet  interrupted  her  with,  "  a  man  wants 
love,  not  comprehension,  from  his  wife.  He  likes  to 
think  himself  something  of  an  enigma,  even  in  his 
home,  and  it  helps  to  keep  him  fond  of  home  and  of 
his  wife  and  of  himself." 

"  I  could  give  you  love,"  said  Penelope,  as  though  she 
counted  aloud  her  wares. 

"And  that  is  all  I  want." 

"But  I  wanted  to  help  you — if  I  came  to  you  at 
all" 


PENELOPE'S  WEB  253 

"You  can  help  me  again,  as  I  have  shown  you  I 
have  been  helped  by  you  in  the  past." 

"  But  if  you  knew  all  the  truth  about  me  ? " 

"  When  I  know  all  the  truth  about  you,  then  I  will 
write  the  best  thing  possible  for  me  to  write ! " 

"  Oh  !  but  I  have  felt  so  sure  of  hurting  you ! " 

"I  have  shown  you  how  you  might  hurt  me,"  he 
answered. 

"  I  am  so  commonplace." 

"And  I  am  so  commonplace,  if  only  you  would 
believe  it !  Just  a  commonplace  human  singer,  able  to 
sing  a  fairly  good  song  when  I  am  warmed  and  fed  and 
happy.  Only  fit  for  silence  when  I  am  out  in  the  cold 
— hungry  and  miserable.  Just  an  ordinary  man 
needing  a  woman's  love  before  I  can  fulfil  my  manhood. 
Just  Penelope's  lover — that  first,  and  anything  else  by 
virtue  of  that." 

"  I  only  want,"  she  said,  almost  as  though  she  had 
not  heard  him,  "  to  do  the  best  thing  for  you.  Can't 
you  put  away  all  thought  for  the  present  and  tell  me 
what  is  really  best  for  you  ? " 

Whether  he  was  able  to  free  himself  so  suddenly 
from  his  care  for  the  present  it  is  impossible  to  say, 
but  at  least  he  told  her  the  whole  truth,  as  he  believed 
it  (believing  rightly).  He  put  his  arms  round  her  while 
he  told  it,  and  this  time  she  did  not  shrink  from  him. 

"  My  dear !  My  dear ! "  he  began.  "And  I've  talked 
of  you  as  practical!" 

It  was  later  that  the  Poet  bethought  him  of  an 
allusion  which  he  had  long  been  holding  in  readiness 
for  the  appropriate  opportunity. 


254  THE  POET  AND   PENELOPE 

"  So  I  am  safe  at  last  in  Penelope's  web,"  he  smiled, 
"  never  to  be  free  of  it  any  more." 

"  But  you  won't  want  to,"  she  assured  him  happily. 

After  a  fashion  of  his,  the  Poet  turned  slightly,  as 
though  addressing  an  invisible  audience.  "  That's  true 
enough,"  he  said,  and  added,  out  of  a  full  heart,  and  with 
a  little  trick  of  repetition  caught  from  Penelope  her- 
self: 

"  God  bless  her  1     God  bless  her  1    God  bless  her  I " 


FICTION 


Lavender  and  Old  Lace 

By  MYRTLE  REED,  author  of  "  Love  Letters  of  a  Musician," 
"  The  Spinster  Book,"  etc. 

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corner  of  New  England  where  more  than  one  romance  lies  hidden  under- 
neath the  prim  garb  of  a  little  village. 

The  Earth  and  the  Fullness 
Thereof 

A  Tale  of  Styria.     By  PETER  ROSEGGER,  author  of  "The 
Forest  Schoolmaster,"  "The  God  Seeker,"  etc.     Author- 
ized English  Version  by  FRANCES  E.  SKINNER. 
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There  is,  throughout,  that  same  sweet  recognition  of  the  beautiful  in 
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wonderful  quality  to  "  The  Forest  Schoolmaster."  And  there  is  a  true 
pleasure  in  the  story's  happy  conclusion  that  is  born  of  no  playwriter's 
trick,  but  of  a  sense  of  the  eternal  justice  of  things. 

Fame  for  a  Woman 

or,  Splendid  Mourning.     By  CRANSTOUN  METCALFE.     With 
Frontispiece    by    ADOLF    THIEDE. 
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whose  world  is  little  bigger  than  her  husband,  loses  that  perspective 
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She  is  persuaded  to  write,  and  her  writing  is  attended  with  success,  such 
as  it  is,  —  the  sort  of  success  which  means  much  figuring  in  "literary 
notes,"  interviews  describing  the  privacy  of  one's  fireside,  and  pre- 
eminence among  so-called  Bohemians. 

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Patricia  of  the  Hills 

By  CHARLES  KENNETT  BURROW. 

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"  Patriotism  without  unreasonableness ;  love  of  the  open  air  and  the 
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"  No  more  charming  romance  of  the  old  sod  has  been  published  in  a 
long  time."— N.  Y.  World. 

"A  very  pretty  Irish  story." — N.  Y.  Tritune. 


Eve   Triumphant 

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Monsieur   Martin 

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BY    ANNA    FULLER 


KATH  E  Rl  N  E    DAY 


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A  LITERARY 
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fithos.     It  is  thorougly  interesting  and  well  worthy  of  a  place  with   Miss 
uller's  other  books." — Congregationalist. 


New  York-G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS-London 


Jfcpittste* 

ia°.     Gilt  top.     (By  mail,  $1.60),  net        .     $1.50 

Also  full  crimson  morocco,  in  a  box,  »<r/     a.oo 

"  A  gem  in  a  dainty,  attractive,  and  artistic  setting.    .    .    . 

Miss  Reed  is  delightfully  witty,  delightfully  humorous,  de- 

lightfully cynical,  delightfully  sane,  and,  above  all,  delight- 

fully spontaneous.     The  pages  sparkle  with  bright,  clear  wit  ; 

they  bubble  with  honest,  hearty  humor  ;  they  contain  many 

stings  but  no  savage  thrusts.    ...    A  magazine  of  epigrams 

for  a  rapid  firing  gun."  —  Philadelphia  Telegraph. 

gjcrwe  l^etlets  erf  a  f&ttsijciait 

ia°.    Gilt  top     ......    $i-75 

Also  full  crimson  morocco,  in  a  box  .  2.50 
"  Miss  Reed's  book  is  an  exquisite  prose  poem  —  words 
strung  on  thought-threads  of  gold  —  in  which  a  musician  tells 
his  love  for  one  whom  he  has  found  to  be  his  ideal.  The  idea 
is  not  new,  but  the  opinion  is  ventured  that  nowhere  has  It 
been  one-half  so  well  carried  out  as  in  the  '  Love  Letters  of  a 
Musician.'  The  ecstacy  of  hope,  the  apathy  of  despair,  alter- 
nate in  these  enchanting  letters,  without  one  line  of  cynicism 
to  mar  the  beauty  of  their  effect."  —  Rochester  Herald. 


gates  gjowe  Edicts  af  a 

ia°.     Gilt  top      ......     $1.75 

Also  full  crimson  morocco,  in  a  box  .  3.50 
"  It  was  with  considerable  hesitation  that  Myrtle  Reed's 
second  volume  of  a  musician's  love  letters  was  taken  up,  a 
natural  inference  being  that  Miss  Reed  could  scarcely  hope  to 
repeat  her  first  success.  Yet  that  she  has  equalled,  if  not  sur- 
passed, the  interest  of  her  earlier  letters  is  soon  apparent. 
Here  will  be  found  the  same  delicate  fancy,  the  same  beauti- 
ful imagery,  and  the  same  musical  phrases  from  well-known 
composers,  introducing  the  several  chapters,  and  giving  the 
key  to  their  various  moods.  Miss  Reed  has  accomplished  her 
purpose  successfully  in  both  series  of  the  letters."  —  N.  Y. 
Times  Saturday  Review. 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
New  York  London 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  UBRARYFACIurr 


A     000129339     8 


